andthe 


KEN  YON  GAM  BIER 

A^AifAl!    *  %*r4ll      vuTIk*  <ft  JL^  J>  Arf  4KV 


,'  .'  ' 


THE  WHITE  HORSE 

AND  THE 

RED-HAIRED   GIRL 

BY 

KENYON  GAMBIER 


GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS  NEW    YORK 


Copyright,  1919, 
By  George  H.  Doran  Company 


Copyrighted,  1918,  by  the  Curtis  Publishing  Comvany 
Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND 
THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 


2135S46 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE 
RED-HAIRED  GIRL 


There  are  no  shepherds  In  the  United  States 
now.  The  word,  with  its  kindly  and  tender  as- 
sociations, its  suggestion  of  small  flocks,  of  indi- 
vidual attention,  of  snug  folds,  of  care  at  lamb- 
ing time,  has  dropped  unnoted  from  public  use. 
Who  could  apply  such  a  word  to  the  man  who 
drove  ten  thousand  sheep  along  the  dusty  buttes 
of  the  Sierras?  Who  could  found  a  parable  on 
these  men  or  associate  spiritual  leadership  with 
them?  And  so  we  added  a  syllable  and  called 
them  shepherders.  But  the  word  lives  in  Eng- 
land. The  trouble  there  begins  when  the  shep- 
herd is  a  shepherdess;  for  if  anybody  called  her 
that,  people  would  laugh  and  think  of  Arcadia 
and  Elizabethan  poems;  and  if  her  crook  was 
mentioned,  thought  would  fly  to  May  Day  and 
colored  ribbons. 

So  I  shall  simply  say  that  Miss  Margaret 
[7] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL  ^ 

Travers,  of  Tortholme  Manor,  Churwell,  Berk- 
shire, was  driving  thirty-one  ewes  along  the  road ; 
that  she  was  helped  by  a  black  sheep-dog  with  a 
tan  ruff;  and  that  she  carried  a  cane  five  feet 
long,  the  head  of  which  was  greatly  curved.  She 
wore  a  belted  coat,  which  below  the  waist  became 
a  skirt,  ending  at  the  knees.  As  she  walked,  and 
the  short  skirt  waved,  the  buttoned  ends  of  her 
breeches  were  to  be  glimpsed.  She  was  a  picn 
neer,  a  portent  and  a  prophecy ;  for  this  was  De-^ 
cember,  1914,  and  no  one  dreamed  of  a  shortage 
of  food,  or  thought  that  the  girls  of  1917  would 
exchange  tennis  rackets  for  hoes,  golf  clubs  for 
spades,  and  typewriters  for  ploughs. 

She  was  young  and  slim  and  vital;  but  it  was 
not  because  of  these  attributes  that  she  found  it 
impossible  to  linger  in  the  rear  of  her  deliberate 
flock.  Unless  violently  active,  thought  and  mem- 
ory came;  and  these  were  bad  company  on  a 
lonely  road  in  the  beginning  of  the  early  winter 
twilight;  and  especially  on  a  road  every  foot  of 
which  was  associated  with  the  twin  brother  who 
had  been  reported  missing  at  the  fall  of  Antwerp. 

She  made  a  sign  to  her  dog  to  remain  as  rear 
guard,  and  she  went  swinging  past  the  sheep. 
A  little  misty  cloud  hovered  always  over  their 
warm  backs  in  the  frosty  air  as  they  browsed 

[8] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

along  on  the  grassy  turf  by  the  roadside.  Her 
footsteps  rang  as  metal  on  metal,  for  there  were 
little  nails  in  the  soles  of  her  shoes,  and  the  sharp 
toes  of  passing  flocks  had  so  cut  the  earth  from 
the  macadam  that  the  surface  was  a  mass  of  tiny 
flints.  Suddenly  there  came  a  rustling  as  of  a 
well-kept  saddle,  pleasant  to  horse  lovers  to  hear. 

She  was  half  a  mile  ahead  when  she  opened  the 
gate  into  Bigmonday  field,  and  there  she  could 
not  help  but  wait.  It  pleased  her  to  see  ap- 
proaching down  the  field  an  old  man  leading  a 
clothed  horse,  which  danced  on  pipestem  legs. 
She  smiled;  and  then  she  gave  a  little  start  and 
glanced  upward  at  the  branches  of  the  spreading 
beech.  Its  dry,  persistent  leaves  still  clung  and 
faintly  tapped  on  one  another  with  a  sound  as  of 
myriads  of  tiny  pattering  feet.  To  this  tree 
Geoffrey  and  she  had  stolen  more  than  once  from 
the  nursery  in  an  awed  moonlight  search  for 
fairies. 

"Good  evening,  Tom  I"  she  called.  "Who's 
that?" 

"Sachem  Third,  Miss  Peggy;  and  chilled  to 
the  bone  I  should  say,  what  with  two  hours  on  a 
siding  for  cannons  to  pass." 

He  was  indignant.  Blue-blooded  horses  had 
always  had  imperious  right  of  way  in  that  district 

£9] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

of  training  stables.  Sachem  pricked  the  small 
ears  that  projected  from  the  breaks  in  his  mono- 
grammed  blankets  and  looked  at  her  through 
round  holes  like  goggles  in  his  headcloth.  His 
grandsire  had  been  named  by  a  humorous  breed- 
er in  sly  allusion  to  a  certain  Tammany  leader 
who  once  trained  near  by. 

"Is  he  entered?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  Miss  Peggy." 

"But  they  may  have  to  stop  racing,  Tom." 

"They'd  stop  the  war  afore  they  stopped  the 
Derby,"  the  old  man  said,  with  conviction.  "I'm 
fair  fed  up  with  the  war." 

He  came  a  step  nearer  and  peered  at  the  girl 
from  sunken,  sad  eyes.  They  had  had  that  hum- 
bled look  since  adolescence ;  for  in  the  very  hour 
in  which  he  had  been  judged  eligible  for  promo- 
tion from  stable  boy  to  j  ockey  he  had  unaccount- 
ably and  fatally  put  on  fat;  and  so  a  princely 
income  and  fame  had  been  denied  him.  The 
irony  was,  that  bitter  disappointment  made  and 
kept  him  lean;  but  then  it  was  too  late. 

"Any  news,  Miss  Peggy?"  he  asked  in  a  low 
voice. 

"No  news,  Tom,"  she  answered  quietly.  "I 
don't  give  up  hope." 

But  the  old  man  turned  his  creased  and 
[10] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

wrinkled  face  away,  for  her  eyes  denied  the  voice. 
She  did  not  tell  him  that  powerful  friends  had 
searched  Holland,  to  which  many  of  the  Naval 
Brigade  had  escaped;  that  the  Red  Cross  had 
inquired  in  German  prisons;  that  even  in  Ant- 
werp itself  a  special  inquiry  had  been  made  by 
American  officials.  The  old  man  glanced  up  at 
the  ridge  of  the  downs. 

"I  mind  the  day  I  was  riding  the  grass  way" — 
he  meant  the  wide  Icknield  Road,  which  was  a 
great  and  travelled  highway  when  Caesar  came — 
"and  there  was  Master  Geoff  and  you  digging 
down  the  king's  barrow  with  wooden  spades." 
He  meant  the  great  tumulus  of  a  Danish  chief. 
"And  the  day  you  was  both  lying  winded  at  the 
foot  of  the  'Oss;  sliding  down  the  'Oss,  neck  and 
body  and  leg,  you  says  when  you  come  to."  He 
meant  the  great  White  Horse,  cut  in  the  chalk 
of  the  hillside,  which  some  say  was  there  long 
before  Alfred  the  Great  won  the  battle  of  Ash- 
down. 

,  "Yes,  Tom;  and  it  was  you  who  got  a  trap 
and  drove  us  back  the  day  we  ran  away  and  hid 
in  Wayland  Smith's  Cave." 

'Twas  so,  Miss  Peggy.    And  how's  the  farm- 


ing?' 


'I  can't  get  good  men,  Tom.    Plenty  of  eligi- 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRT, 

bles,  of  course!  but  I  won't  have  a  man  who 
could  join  up." 

"It'll  all  be  over  in  the  spring,  Miss  Peggy," 
he  said,  as  he  led  the  colt  through  the  gate. 

"Oh,  yes;  of  course!  Look  out  for  my  sheep! 
Don't  startle  Sachem  on  to  the  flints.  .  .  .  Good 
night!" 

She  turned  away  from  the  ridge  and  its  mem- 
ories ;  but  she  could  not  escape  others.  She  could 
just  now  see  Oxford  across  the  valley  and  over 
the  hills ;  but  she  thought  of  the  day  when  she 
had  visited  the  undergraduate  brother  and  they 
had  got  themselves  locked  for  hours  in  Magda- 
len Chapel.  The  black  spot  on  the  hidden 
Thames  was  Abingdon,  and  she  recalled  the 
crushing  of  the  little  half-rigger  and  Geof- 
frey against  the  Culham  lockside  by  a  brutal 
launch,  and  how  she  had  held  him  up  in  the  seeth- 
ing water  until  they  had  got  a  boat-hook  under, 
his  collar. 

She  set  her  teeth  and  turned  her  eyes  from  the 
north;  but  they  saw  the  tree-crowned  hill  the 
Romans  called  Sinodun,  and  the  Saxons,  Witten- 
ham  Clumps.  At  its  foot  was  Day's  Lock;  and 
from  that  Geoffrey  had  fished  her  out  and  stood 
her  on  end  till  the  water  had  run  out  of  her 
throat  and  the  air  had  run  into  her  lungs.  The 

[12] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  BED-HAIRED  GIRL 

valley  at  her  feet,  the  runs  with  the  Craven  and 
the  Vale  of  White  Horse  hounds,  Geoff  leading 
on  his  bright  bay,  and  she  on  her  chestnut — there 
was  no  escape  from  memories  whichever  way  she 
looked. 

She  turned  to  hunt  up  the  belated  sheep ;  but 
stopped  short,  for  she  saw  a  little  girl  coming 
across  fields  from  the  village  and  she  was  almost 
sure  it  was  little  Maggie  from  the  post  office. 
Telegrams  about  social  and  trivial  matters  had 
ceased  by  tacit  consent.  People  tore  them  open 
now  with  trembling  fingers,  fearing  a  War  Office 
or  Admiralty  message  telling  of  death  or  wounds 
or  German  prisons.  In  the  two  months  since 
Peggy  had  flown  from  the  London  flat  and  had 
forced  or  cajoled  the  bailiff  and  the  cowman  and 
the  shepherd  and  young  Williams  to  volunteer, 
she  had  received  several  telegrams  about  hay, 
potatoes,  a  tractor  and  artificial  manures ;  but  she 
had  never  opened  one  without  a  thrill — not  of 
fear,  but  of  hope.  And  so  she  jumped  over  the 
stile,  calling  out: 

"A  telegram!    For  me?" 

"Yes,  Miss  Travers;  and  two  letters." 

The  telegram  only  asked  whether  the  Home 
Farm  was  selling  store  cattle.  Miss  Travers 
opened  one  envelope,  post-marked  Rozendaal, 

[18] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

and  was  just  able  to  decipher  in  the  dim  light  four 
names  and  addresses,  and  a  request  in  French 
that  these  mothers  should  be  notified  that  their 
little  daughters  were  well,  and  sent  love.  The 
signature  was  a  cross — nothing  more.  Strange 
war  letters  had  already  come  to  the  girl  and  she 
assumed  that  membership  of  one  committee  or 
another  had  brought  this  communication.  She 
could  see  that  the  second  envelope  bore  the  same 
spidery  French  handwriting,  and  she  put  it  in  her 
pocket  unopened. 

She  folded  her  sheep,  cut  half- frozen  mangolds 
for  them  in  the  root-cutter,  and  then  went  to  the 
shut-up  manor  house,  where  the  shrouded  furni- 
ture threw  bobbing,  ghostly  shadows  from  her 
lantern  and  her  footsteps  roused  cavernous 
echoes.  The  dog  whined  and  nosed  about.  "He's 
not  here,  Shep,"  she  cried,  and  blinked  back  tears 
as  she  opened  the  telephone  book.  Only  one  of 
the  persons  named  in  the  list  of  addresses  was 
to  be  found — Mrs.  Tomlinson  Bates,  of  Kew, 
London. 

When  Peggy  at  length  was  connected  she 
asked,  in  her  clear,  low-pitched  voice,  whether 
Mrs.  Bates  had  a  daughter  abroad.  Excited 
answer  came  that  little  Ellen  was  at  a  convent 
near  Werchter,  between  Brussels  and  Louvain. 

[14] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"She  is  well  and  sends  her  love,"  Miss  Travers 
said.  Now  another  voice  came,  agitated,  almost 
hysterical.  Who  was  she  ?  Where  was  she  speak- 
ing from?  How  had  she  heard?  Was  she  a 
neutral?  Could  she  fetch  Ellen  out  of  Belgium? 
A  shell  had  gone  through  the  child's  dormitory. 
Ellen  was  starving.  She  had  no  winter  clothes. 
A  crash ;  Miss  Travers  was  cut  off ;  she  thought 
Mrs.  Bates  had  fainted.  She  fumbled  with 
numbed  hands  at  the  other  letter,  bending  over 
by  the  dim  lantern;  and  this  is  what  she  read: 
"He  now  talks  much  of  you.  He  sends  his  love 
to  his  dear  Peggy  and  says  you  must  carry  on. 
We  cannot  give  the  treatment  or  the  food  we 
should  wish,  and  the  air  of  the  cellar  is  not  good 
for  him ;  but  his  wounds  are  healing  and  his  spirit 
never  flags.  He  will  not  be  strong  enough  for 
the  rough  underground  road  for  a  long  time. 
Remember  always,  please,  that  no  one  must 
know ;  no  one !  The  Germans  watch  the  English 
journals  and  there  are  always  spies  everywhere. 
Trust  in  God  and  pray."  Then  the  sign  of  the 
cross.  Nothing  more. 

"Shep!  ShepI  He  is  alive!  He  is  alive!" 
The  sharp  cry  set  the  dog  to  barking  and 
bounding  in  the  great  hall  and  something  fell 

[15] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

with  a  great  smash.  The  girl  was  startled  back 
to  self-control. 

"Shep,  come  here!" 

From  the  echoes  of  her  voice  seemed  to  come 
a  question:  Was  she  going  to  fetch  Ellen  out  of 
Belgium  ?  She  uttered  a  long-drawn  cry  like  that 
of  a  child  who  sees  a  shower  of  golden  stars  at 
fireworks.  Why  shouldn't  she  bring  Ellen  out 
of  Belgium?  Why  shouldn't  she  be  a  neutral? 
Americans  were  neutrals.  Why  shouldn't  she 
be  an  American?  Why  shouldn't  she  bring  Geof- 
frey out  too ?  Was  it  impossible?  Lady  Daintry 
would  know.  Lady  Daintry  knew  all  about  pass- 
ports and  regulations  and  red  tape. 

The  girl  flew  again  to  the  telephone.  Ai 
guarded  talk,  for  they  would  be  listening  at  the 
Abingdon  exchange ;  wonderful  news,  but  cloud- 
ed. Was  it  impossible  to  be  a  neutral  and  go 
where  neutrals  went?  No;  she  could  not  come 
across  the  valley,  for  she  had  sent  her  household 
in  her  auto  to  a  picture  show  at  Abingdon  and 
she  was  alone  at  the  farm.  Splendid!  Lady 
Daintry  should  come  to  her  instead. 

She  never  lifted  her  lantern  when  her  feet 
crunched  in  the  hall  on  fragments  of  porcelain, 
and  she  ran  across  fields  as  fast  as  slippery  paths 
and  a  swaying  light  would  permit.  She  flung 

[16] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

great  logs  on  the  huge  fire  at  the  end  of  the 
kitchen.  Nobody  dreamed  at  the  Home  Farm 
of  using  a  sitting-room  when  privacy  could  be 
had  in  this  red-tiled,  oak-raftered,  oak-dressered 
kitchen. 

Peggy  sat,  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  her  chin  in 
her  hands,  staring  into  the  great  red  blaze.  Let- 
ters had  gone  astray,  of  course,  from  the  good 
Reverend  Mere,  of  this  convent,  who  was  so 
bravely  hiding  Geoffrey  in  a  cellar.  Had  the 
Germans  got  those  letters  and  searched  him  out? 
Wounded?  How  badly?  How?  Where?  She 
jumped  to  her  feet,  ran  and  changed.  The  slim 
boy  came  back  a  girl,  with  a  rippling  river  of 
burnished  ruddy  hair  flowing  down  about  her. 
She  did  it  up  by  the  warm  fire,  going  over  some- 
times to  a  mirror  that  some  vandal  cook  had  at 
some  time  nailed  in  the  oak  panelling. 

Lady  Daintry  came,  a  round  ball  of  fur,  lu- 
dicrous of  body,  delightful  of  fat  face.  She  was 
abnormal  with  the  kind  of  fat  which  made  people 
think  that  if  she  bounded  slightly  she  would  hit 
the  ceiling.  She  had  a  clear  fine  skin,  was  fifty, 
without  a  grey  hair,  clever,  adventurous  by 
proxy,  and  very  kind-hearted.  She  habitually 
expressed  good  sense  and  affection  in  words  of 
extraordinary  levity.  She  was  the  widow  of  an 

[IT] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

ex-Minister  to  Holland;  she  had  a  house  on  the 
loveliest  backwater  of  the  Thames,  at  Sutton 
Courtney,  where  kingfishers  shot  past  like  blue 
bullets  in  summer  and  sometimes  wild  ducks  bred 
in  spring;  and  her  only  son  Jack,  about  Peggy's 
age,  was  in  the  Officers'  Training  Corps. 

She  shed  her  furs  and  then  read  the  letter. 

"Poor  old  Geoff!  Fancy  Geoff  shut  up  in  a 
cellar  with  a  lot  of  nuns!"  She  blinked  her  em- 
bedded eyelids;  then  looked  at  Peggy.  ISTo  one 
ever  thought  Lady  Daintry  ridiculous  after  re' 
ceiving  a  look  like  that.  It  warmed  the  heart. 
It  encouraged.  "Startle  me  with  your  mad 
scheme!"  she  said,  as  she  proceeded  to  fill  a  Rich- 
mond chair  too  full. 

Peggy  talked  until  the  household  returned, 
She  talked  in  Lady  Daintry's  auto,  for  Peggy 
returned  with  her  ladyship  for  the  night.  She 
was  silent  about  the  mad  scheme  at  dinner.  She 
implored  and  argued  afterward  in  her  ladyship's 
sitting-room.  She  cajoled  and  pleaded  in  her 
ladyship's  bedroom. 

"Go  to  bed,"  said  Lady  Daintry  as  the  clocks 
sounded  one.  "You  can  never  be  a  Yankee;  you 
are  too  well-bred."  She  did  not  mean  that;  but 
England  was  bitter  then  against  "dollar  worship- 
pers, who  would  not  fight." 

[18] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

Peggy,  assured  that  her  plan  was  at  least  not 
absurdly  impossible,  slept  soundly  by  will  power ; 
for  she  must  be  in  topping  form  for  all  she  would, 
have  to  do  if  Lady  Daintry  yielded  consent  and 
help.  In  the  morning  Lady  Daintry  said : 

"Make  notes,  Peggy." 

Then  Peggy  knew  she  had  won.  Notes,  with 
Lady  Daintry,  followed  decisions.  "Write  only 
the  important  things,"  went  on  her  ladyship, 
"and  criticize  everything."  Lying  on  a  sofa,  a, 
high,  shapeless  bundle,  she  shut  her  eyes  and 
began  to  think  aloud:  "Passport  for  two.  Only 
husband  and  wife  can  go  on  one  passport.  You 
can  explain  away  the  missing  husband  on  the 
outward  journey.  Mrs.  Margie  Fargo." 

"Dare  I?"  Peggy  asked,  looking  up,  startled. 
"I  met  her  here  at  dinner,  remember." 

"Let's  hope  she'll  never  know,"  Lady  Daintry 
said.  "She  got  reams  of  letters  from  home  and 
left  them  about  everywhere.  I  saw  the  cook 
reading  one  once,  and  the  boatman  brought  two 
from  the  punt  one  day.  I  found  half  a  dozen 
after  she  had  left.  They're  on  the  table  there. 
I  read  the  lot  in  bed  this  morning.  Very  inti- 
mate ;  but  they're  not  your  secrets.  They'll  con- 
vince any  official  that  you're  American.  That's 

[19] 


THE  WHITE  HOUSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

why  you're  Mrs.  Montgomery  Fargo,  of  

Now  what  is  that  place?" 

Peggy  consulted  the  letters. 

"Kan-Ka-Kee,  111.,"  she  read  out.  "What's 
111.?" 

"You  must  hunt  that  up,"  said  Lady  Daintry. 
"It  does  not  stand  for  Michigan  or  Connecticut, 
I  suppose;  but  there  are  other  states.  Write  to 
the  mothers  of  the  convent  children,  signing  your- 
self Margie  Fargo.  Say  you  will  see  the  Lon- 
don mothers  to-morrow.  They  will  fall  on  your 
neck  and  cry  when  you  say  you  are  going  to  get 
their  girls,  and  will  give  you  letters  to  the  Mother 
Superior  to  deliver  up  their  daughters.  Go  to 
the  Gloucester  mother  the  next  day;  Mrs.  Pol- 
lard, isn't  it?  She,  too,  will  think  you  an  angel 
from  America.  She'll  be  sure  to  know  the  Amer- 
ican Consul  at  Gloucester.  He's  the  passport 
man.  He  won't  have  had  much  experience. 
You'll  be  locally  introduced  and  have  splendid 
letters  to  show  him  and  a  j  oily  good  reason  for 
going.  Hand  me  that  Almanach  de  Gotha." 

Peggy  handed  over  the  German-printed  vol- 
ume with  an  expression  of  disgust. 

"If  your  beautiful  nose,"  her  ladyship  said, 
"is  going  to  be  turned  up  like  that  in  Belgium 
it  will  lead  you  straight  to  a  German  prison. 

[20] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

Peggy"-— Lady  Daintry's  voice  trembled — "you 
are  much  too  pretty  to  go  there.  You  are  risk- 
ing more  than  you  know." 

"Nonsense!  We've  had  all  that  out,"  Peggy 
cried,  with  a  fierce  impatience.  "What  would 
you  stop  at  if  you  could  perhaps  save  Jack  from 
a  German  prison?" 

Lady  Daintry  chuckled. 

"There  are  some  dangers  I  should  be  fairly 
safe  from,"  she  said.  She  consulted  the  volume. 
"Yes;  there  is  a  consul  at  Gloucester.  Funny 
thing — crowned  heads  and  American  Consuls  in 
the  Almanach  de  Gotha !  But  so  they  are.  Mrs. 
Pollard  will  take  you  to  him,  mad  for  her  poor 
little  kiddy,  never  doubting  you,  swearing  by 
you.  Say  to  the  consul  that  you  are  bringing 
your  husband  the  next  day  to  sign  a  joint  appli- 
cation for  a  passport.  Say  that  he's — how  tall  is 
Geoff?  Well,  say  that — five  feet  eleven;  eyes, 
grey;  nose,  prominent;  face,  long;  chin,  square; 
complexion — well,  medium.  Yes ;  he'll  take  that 
word.  That's  Geoff,  you  see.  Make  an  appoint- 
ment for  the  next  afternoon  and  wire  me  the 
hour.  I'll  motor  down  with  a  man." 

"I  don't  care  who  he  is,"  she  said;  "but  I  know 
no  double  for  Geoff."  Peggy  laughed. 

[21] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"I'm  going  to  lend  you  Jack,"  her  ladyship 
answered. 

"Jack?  He's  shorter.  He's  shades  darker. 
His  eyes " 

"The  consul  is  looking  into  yours,  not  his,  if 
''you  manage  right.  Remember,  everything  has 
been  written  down  the  day  before  and  the  consul 
has  no  tape  measure  for  height.  We're  all  so 
vain  that  we  wouldn't  stand  real  descriptions  on 
passports.  If  height  and  eyes  are  right  a  pass- 
port will  fit  any  man.  The  photograph?  We  peel 
that  off  as  soon  as  we  get  back  here.  It  will 
work,  my  dear;  it  will  work!" 

"But  Jeannette?" 

"She  would  lend  you  more  than  her  fiance 
to  save  Geoff." 

"Yes,  yes;  Jeannette  would,"  Peggy  agreed. 
"But  remember,  Jack  might  be  prosecuted." 

"And  what  risk  are  you  taking?  And  will 
Jack  boggle  over  that  little  trifle,  do  you  think?" 

"You're  a  darling!"  Peggy  cried  impulsively. 
"And  shall  I  kiss  Jack  and  call  him  Montgomery 
when  he  turns  up  at  Gloucester?" 

"No.  You've  only  just  parted.  Call  him 
Monty  if  you  like.  Now  write  your  letter  and 
look  up  your  trains.  Peggy,  here!" 

The  girl  went  and  stood  over  her  ladyship,  im- 
[22] 


THE  WHITE  HOUSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

pressed  by  something  in  the  voice.  Lady  Dain- 
try  drew  a  locket  from  her  vast  bosom  and 
opened  it. 

"When  I  got  so  fat,"  she  said,  "I  had  to  have 
it  filed  off."  She  put  the  wedding  ring  on 
Peggy's  wedding  finger.  "Bring  it  back,  and 
Geoff  with  it,"  she  said.  Peggy  bent  and  kissed 
her. 

Four  days  later  Peggy  arrived  at  Victoria  Sta- 
tion with  one  suitcase  and  a  handbag.  The  ap-, 
proach  to  the  continental  train  she  found  railed 
and  boarded  in,  and  an  improvised  counter  sug- 
gested a  custom-house.  She  stood  before  the  first 
of  the  many  inquisitors  she  would  have  to  meet 
on  her  journey.  The  inspector,  a  combined  rail- 
way and  police  official,  opened  her  bag  with  a 
smiling  apology. 

"It's  wartime,  miss,"  he  said;  "and  we  have 
to  examine " 

He  stopped  short,  stared  at  the  contents ;  then 
at  Peggy.  He  rammed  his  hand  down  and 
turned  back  the  man's  clothes  with  which  the  bag 
was  crammed.  Peggy  serenely  glanced  about, 
as  though  indifferently  awaiting  the  end  of  this 
tiresome  formality. 

"But,  excuse  me,  miss — madame." 

"Well?" 

[23] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"Is  this  yours?"  he  asked,  pointing. 

"Of  course;  mine  and  my  husband's." 

She  had  rehearsed  this  scene  half  a  dozen  times. 
She  stretched  out  a  hand  and  with  a  careful 
matron's  touch,  refolded  a  lapel  of  the  coat 
Geoffrey  was  to  wear  out  of  Belgium. 

"Oh,  yes;  I  see!  We'll  leave  it  till  he  comes," 
the  inspector  said.  "He  has  the  passport,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"If  you  wait  for  him,"  Peggy  answered  with 
a  little  smile,  "you'll  wait  some  weeks.  He  went 
over  yesterday." 

She  drew  a  long  envelope  from  her  handbag 
and  produced  from  it  her  passport.  The  official 
studied  it;  then  scrutinized  the  imperturbable 
Peggy. 

"Last  night?"  he  repeated,  puzzled.  "But 
this  is  for  him  too.  How  could  he  go  without 
this?" 

"He's  a  journalist,"  was  her  prompt  explana- 
tion. "We  expected  to  come  to-night.  He  got 
word  it  must  be  last  night.  I  couldn't  possibly 
get  ready.  He  left  this  for  me  and  had  just 
time  to  get  a  special  Home  Office  permit." 

"Quite  so!" 

The  inspector  was  perfectly  satisfied.  It 
might  have  happened  just  as  she  said.  Peggy 

[24] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

had  too  many  acquaintances  among  civil  servants 
not  to  have  got  every  detail  right.  These  young 
gentlemen  had  had  little  idea  that  in  carefully 
explaining  the  workings  of  a  system  they  were 
showing  Peggy  how  to  evade  it.  The  official 
looked  at  a  discolored  place  on  the  passport. 

"You  shouldn't  have  taken  his  photograph 
off,"  he  said. 

"What  were  we  to  do?"  Peggy  asked.  "He 
had  no  time  to  have  others  taken  for  the  permit. 
He  simply  had  to  have  this  one.  As  it  was,  he 
rushed  off  in  such  a  hurry  that  he  left  this  suit- 
case." 

"Journalists,"  the  inspector  said,  "are  always 
in  a  hurry.  Then,  where's  your  luggage?" 

"He  took  mine — half -packed.  I  don't  dare  to 
think  what  he  said  when  he  opened  it."  Peggy 
laughed. 

The  official  closed  the  suitcase,  with  a  wide 
grin. 

"I'll  take  it  to  the  train  for  you,"  he  said;  and 
he  led  the  way. 

She  paused  and  looked  about  her  at  the  little 
knots  of  people  who,  like  herself,  had  passed 
the  searchers.  This  delay  gave  a  frowning  man 
outside  the  railings  a  chance  to  inspect  her.  Jack 
Daintry  had  furtively  come  to  the  station  and 

[25] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

stood  among  other  watchers,  his  face  pressed 
close  to  the  iron  bars  of  the  high  barrier.  He  had 
opposed  this  mad  plan,  but  had  been  overruled 
by  three  women.  She  looked  so  young  and  so 
astonishingly  pretty!  His  madness  had  made 
this  wild  journey  possible.  He  had  perjured 
himself  and  denied  his  nationality  for  this.  He 
had  been  trapped  and  bamboozled  and  cajoled 
into  delivering  this  irresponsible  girl,  unprotect- 
ed and  alone,  to  the  enemy.  He  had  expected,  if 
he  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  at  all,  to  see  her  very 
quietly  dressed,  tripping  along  almost  timidly, 
attracting  no  attention  except  such  as  might  be 
given  to  a  young  governess  travelling  alone ;  but 
people  turned  and  looked  and  smiled  with 
pleasure. 

She  was  marked ;  the  gloomy  watcher  saw  that, 
He  had  not  realized  how  noticeable  she  was$ 
how  vivid  her  personality ;  how  she  caught  the  eye 
and  stamped  herself  on  memory.  He  criticized 
her  dress.  That  moleskin  coat,  reaching  to  her 
heels,  could  be  observed  and  remembered  by  the 
blindest  German  sentry  in  Belgium.  He  thought 
her  most  becoming  toque  was  frivolous,  and  ob- 
jected even  to  the  grey  veil  that  fluttered  a  little 
in  the  breeze.  He  frowned  at  the  pink  rose  she 
had  fastened  in  the  high  collar  of  her  coat.  It 

[26] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

bobbed  up  and  down  below  her  left  ear,  and  it 
gave  her  just  the  charming  and  capricious  air 
that,  above  all  things,  should  have  been  left  be- 
hind. 

Peggy  turned  suddenly,  saw  him  before  he 
could  duck  his  head,  and  darted  over;  but  a  po- 
liceman intervened,  explaining  that  passengers, 
after  passing  the  barrier,  must  not  "be  in  com- 
munication" with  anybody.  She  waved  a  hand 
and  nodded  gaily  as  "poor  dismal  old  Jack" 
forced  a  hollow  smile.  She  was  glad,  indeed,  that 
she  had  removed  from  the  passport  the  photo- 
graph of  a  husband  who  was  not  a  husband ;  who 
had  gone  to  Holland  the  day  before,  yet  had 
just  waved  her  a  farewell.  On  this  complicated 
thought  she  took  her  seat  in  the  Pullman. 

Off  at  last!  Peggy  had  reserved  an  end  chair 
in  the  Pullman,  not  knowing  that  it  faced  the 
car.  She  saw  that  everybody  was  reading,  but 
that  everybody  looked  up  often;  that  eyes  met 
eyes,  and  that  each  pair  dropped  too  quickly. 
She  seemed  to  be  looking  at  a  new,  strange  race, 
whose  manner,  dress  and  appearance  were  as- 
sumed ;  and  the  feeling  grew  as  she  became  more 
responsive  to  the  atmosphere  of  mutual  espion- 
age and  suspicion. 

Up  until  now  she  had  moved  among  people  she 
[27] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

knew  or  knew  about ;  for  the  first  time  in  her  life 
she  had  something  to  conceal,  and  she  was  acutely 
sensitive  to  the  silently  and  subtly  conveyed  un- 
easiness she  rightly  believed  was  all  about  her; 
she  had,  in  fact,  come  under  the  edge  of  the 
shadow  of  war.  The  world  had  not  yet  become 
used  to  war;  and  in  December,  1914,  hardly  any 
but  officials,  couriers,  newspaper  men  and  mem- 
bers of  the  American  Relief  Commission,  as  it 
was  then  called,  crossed  to  Holland  with  normal 
nerves. 

She  fought  the  infection  and  thought  that  part 
of  the  gloomy  constraint  was  due  to  the  presence 
of  two  German  ladies.  They  were  unmistak- 
able. They  sat  erect,  looked  straight  ahead  of 
them,  and  bore  themselves  with  a  notable  arro- 
gance. Peggy  asked  herself  whether  she  should 
behave  like  that  if  she  was  in  a  train  going  from 
Berlin  to  Bentheim,  on  the  Dutch  frontier. 

She  owned  up  fairly  that  she  could  not  be  natu- 
ral and  certainly  could  not  look  pleased.  She 
felt  an  actual  physical  repugnance  to  these 
women;  and  she  did  not  know  that  her  face  had 
clouded  and  that  her  curved  upper  lip  had  become 
a  straight  line  with  compression.  She  pressed 
her  upper  arms  close  against  her  with  a  little  shiv- 
er ;  then  she  remembered  that  she  was  a  neutral. 

[28] 


!     THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

She  looked  away  from  them  to  meet  the  steady 
gaze  of  large,  soft  brown  eyes.  She  escaped  this 
sudden  meeting  of  glances  with  the  indifference 
of  a  life  training  in  such  casual  encounters,  and 
retained  a  fleeting,  odd  impression  of  a  good- 
looking,  clean  boxer,  with  the  eyes  of  a  girl. 

A  small  table  separated  her  from  a  man  who 
faced  her,  and  she  had  been  conscious  for  some 
time  that  he  had  been  covertly  watching  her.  His 
olive  skin  was  a  rich  brown  and  pleasantly  shiny, 
like  a  horse-chestnut.  He  spoke  to  her  in  South 
American  French.  She  snubbed  him  mercilessly ; 
for  rich  South  Americans  travelling  in  Europe 
sometimes  required  sharp  treatment  from  ladies 
travelling  alone. 

It  was  a  relief  when  the  guard  came  for  the 
tickets.  One  of  the  German  ladies  asked  whether 
they  could  get  an  evening  paper  at  Folkestone 
Pier. 

"No  local  papers,  madame;  nothing  later  than 
you  have,"  the  guard  answered. 

"But  if  ships  haf  been  sank  or  mines  are  there, 
is  it  that  we  must  cross?"  she  said. 

"You  sleep  on  board,  and  the  boat  doesn't  start 
till  daylight,"  the  guard  answered.  "There's  no 
danger." 

Peggy  caught  a  tightened  lip  here  and  there  \ 
[29] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

and  saw  one  frank,  natural  grin.  The  grin  was 
human,  even  though  it  j  arred ;  and  it  proved  that 
the  man  with  the  enormous  brown  eyes  was  not 
suffering  from  tension  of  the  nerves.  Peggy  was 
proudly  contemptuous  that  the  only  one  to  ex- 
press fear  was  a  native  of  the  country  which 
sowed  the  peril. 

At  Folkestone  the  South  American  offered  to 
carry  her  bag.  She  courteously  declined.  Pleas- 
antly, also,  as  she  thought,  she  declined  the  help 
of  the  brown-eyed  boxer.  She  did  not  know 
how  great  a  gulf  lies  between  English  and  Amer- 
ican manners  in  small  courtesies,  and  with  what 
cool  condescension  the  American  conceived  him- 
self rebuffed.  After  a  long  wait  in  a  dense  crowd 
she  was  perfunctorily  passed  to  the  boat;  and 
she  promptly  went  to  her  berth.  The  water  lap- 
ping against  the  piles  of  their  pier  sent  her  to 
sleep. 

After  a  solid  breakfast  the  next  morning  she 
went  to  the  deck  and  gazed  across  the  water  at 
the  English  coast,  so  peaceful,  so  soft  in  the  haze 
of  distance.  War  ?  It  seemed  absurd,  incredible. 
She  turned  and  looked  seaward;  and  she  flung 
out  her  arms  to  this  wide  salt-water  moat  which 
surrounded  and  protected  the  homes  of  her  land. 
She  laughed  at  the  whitecaps  jigging  up  and 

[30] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

down  in  the  freshening  breeze.  Mines  hidden 
beneath  them?  Submarines  lurking?  It  seemed* 
incredible. 

But  no  vessel  was  to  be  seen  toward  the  east, 
while  many  steamed  between  her  and  the  coast; 
it  was  clear  that  all  were  pursuing  a  charted 
course,  of  which  her  vessel  was  on  the  seaward 
edge.  She  walked  the  windward  side,  having  it 
all  to  herself ;  and  each  time,  toward  the  bow,  tiny 
pellets  of  icy  spray  stung  her  face;  and  she  lin- 
gered at  each  turn  to  catch  more  of  this  exhila- 
rating sprinkle.  Always,  as  she  stood,  she  looked 
to  the  east.  Belgium  and  Geoff  were  there. 

The  South  American  staggered  to  her  side. 
He  broke  into  perturbed,  hurried  speech.  He 
told  her  he  was  Senor  Allones,  a  diamond  mer- 
chant of  Rio  de  Janeiro,  a  man  of  affairs,  rich; 
that  his  wife  and  two  little  children  were  starv- 
ing in  Scheveningen;  that  all  exchanges  were 
broken  down  with  Brazil;  that  all  his  diamonds 
were  hidden  beneath  the  fourth  stone  at  the  left 
on  entering  the  cellar  of  1501  Lange  Leemstratt, 
in  Antwerp;  and  that  those  diamonds  were  of 
the  value  of  four  million  francs.  He  paused  on 
this,  and  looked  at  her  with  pleading  eyes.  Peg- 
gy calmly  stared  at  him  and  wondered  that  a 

[31] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

reasonably  intelligent-looking  man  should  try 
such  a  silly  game  on  her. 

"Monsieur  trusts  me  profoundly,"  she  said, 
with  dry  irony.  "He  places  all  his  fortune  in  my 
weak  hands — and  I  am  unknown  to  him." 

She  waited  to  hear  whether  he  would  ask  a  loan 
of  ten  pounds  or  a  hundred  on  this  Antwerp  nest 
of  brilliants.  He  could  not  go  into  Belgium,  he 
said;  the  Germans  refused  a  pass.  Madame 
could  at  least  bring  three  or  four  of  the  largest, 
of  the  cut  ones.  They  would  excite  no  suspicion. 
An  American  lady  with  diamonds  in  her  purse — 
it  was  natural,  proper,  the  usual  thing.  It  was 
so  simple,  so  easy;  a  woman  of  Flanders  lived 
in  the  house  in  Lange  Leemstratt ;  the  house  was 
all  pitted  and  marked  by  shrapnel  from  a  Ger- 
man shell.  She  did  not  know  of  the  diamonds. 
He  had  hidden  them  secretly.  She  could  be  told, 
and  madame  could  give  her  one — whichever 
madame  chose — as  large  as  madame  liked. 

"I  will  keep  your  secret,  monsieur,"  she  said; 
"but  I  cannot  help  you.  I  am  on  honor." 

Then  she  waited  for  the  request  for  a  loan; 
but  it  did  not  come.  He  stood  mute,  studying 
her  face;  and  when  he  saw  it  was  inflexible  he 
only  murmured  that  he  was  sorry  to  have  troubled 

[32] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

madame,  and  turned  away.  She  stayed  him  with 
a  friendly  gesture. 

"I  am  sure  you  will  get  them  sometime,"  she 
said.  "Will  you  give  me  your  address  and  let 
me  send  ten  pounds  to  madame,  your  wife?" 

He  drew  himself  up,  refused  with  a  haughty* 
dignity,  and  went  away. 

She  looked  out  over  the  water  and  saw  four 
destroyers  rushing  toward  the  north.  She 
judged  their  progress,  with  a  practised  eye,  as 
approaching  thirty  knots  an  hour.  "There's 
something  up!"  she  thought,  and  her  heart 
thrilled.  She  stood  watching  with  fixed  eyes  un- 
til they  were  hull  down.  A  trawler  came  and 
looked  them  over,  and  she  saw  naval  uniforms. 
She  waved  her  hand,  and  welcomed  the  salute 
and  the  cheery  smile  from  a  tanned  young  man. 
She  never  left  the  deck  all  day ;  never  thought  of 
mines;  hardly  saw  a  fellow-passenger  on  this 
windward  side;  had  her  luncheon  and  her  tea 
brought  to  her,  and  was  disappointed  when,  at 
dusk,  the  steamer  was  skirting  the  sand-dunes  of 
Flushing,  that  she  had  not  caught  the  boom  of 
at  least  one  gun  from  Zeebrugge. 

The  Dutch  custom-house  officials  looked  at 
Peggy,  not  at  her  suitcase,  and  politely  waved  it 
away  unopened,  and  the  examination  of  her  pass- 

[33] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

port  was  nominal ;  but  two  Dutch  soldiers  sprang 
to  attention  and  held  crossed  bayonets  fiercely  in 
front  of  her  when  she  subsequently  attempted  to 
pass  out  of  the  railway  station  by  a  small  exit. 
She  turned  aside,  stepped  through  the  next  arch- 
way, and  went  on  smiling.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  this  incident  typified  the  whole  great  farce; 
no  real  effective  guard  on  frontiers  anywhere — 
just  elaborate  pretence  and  fussy  examinations, 
which  found  nothing,  and  crossed  bayonets  at 
places  that  did  not  matter. 

She  was  right.  But  three  months  later  she 
could  never  have  secured  her  passport  or  have 
been  permitted  to  leave  England.  It  took  nearly 
a  year  for  governments  and  officials  and  the 
world  to  adjust  themselves  to  war.  Meantime 
the  innocent  and  the  dangerous,  the  spies  and 
the  neutrals,  the  honest  and  the  others,  came  and 
went  almost  freely,  with  vast  official  pretence  of 
regulations  that  regulated  little.  Governments 
knew  that,  too,  and  corrected  it  as  fast  as  they 
could ;  but  personally  conducting  a  world  proved 
to  be  a  monster  business. 

She  went  through  the  big,  dingy  combined 
dining-  and  waiting-room.  Her  eyes  widened  at 
the  change  in  the  pallid  and  downcast  Germans 
she  had  seen  in  the  Folkestone  waiting-room. 

[34] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

They  were  merry  and  boisterous  now,  and  she 
saw  them  clink  beer  mugs;  and  she  heard  one 
man  say  :ffSiegestag.JJ  She  could  not  dine  there. 
She  went  across  the  road  to  a  hotel,  found  the 
dining-room  with  but  two  empty  tables,  and 
chose  the  one  by  the  fire.  She  seated  herself,  and 
then  saw  that  her  immediate  neighbours  were  the 
two  German  ladies  of  the  train  and  two  men  who 
had  met  them.  They  were  all  in  high  spirits,  and 
the  men  were  drinking  champagne  from  tum- 
blers, touching  rims.  She  heard  triumphant 
laughter,  and  she  caught  the  word  "Siegesfest." 

It  seemed  natural  to  her  that  they  should  be 
foappy  at  this  family  meeting,  but  strange  that 
it  should  be  called  a  "feast  of  victory."  She 
asked  the  head  waiter  in  murmured  English 
whether  there  was  any  news.  He  answered  in 
Dutch,  then  in  German,  that  he  had  little  Eng- 
lish. She  repeated  her  question  in  French. 

"Has  not  madame  heard?"  he  answered 
promptly.  "Scarborough  has  been  shelled  and 
the  fort  of  Whitby  Abbey?" 

"The  fort?"  she  blazed,  white  with  indignation. 
"It's  a  lonely  ruin  on  a  hilltop." 

"I  beg  madame's  par-don.  I  speak  as  the  ever- 
ning  paper  speaks;  no  more." 

[35] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

She  remembered  that  she  was  a  neutral  and 
ordered  clear  soup. 

Beautiful  Scarborough,  most  innocent  of  sea- 
side places;  Whitby  Abbey,  crumbling  cradle  of 
Anglo-Saxon  literature — she  knew  them  both. 
But  the  great  shock  to  her  and  to  all  England  of 
this  first  attack  of  its  kind  on  unfortified  places, 
was  not  that  this  assault  was  outside  the  laws  of 
nations,  wanton,  purposeless;  but  that  any  such 
sacrilege  was  physically  possible. 

So  secure  through  long  ages  has  England  been 
from  sea  attack  that  the  home  island  has  be- 
come to  the  English  a  high  altar,  holy,  untouch- 
able, ringed  about  as  much  by  sacred  tradition 
and  invulnerable  memory  as  by  water  and  naval 
power.  This  sly  attack  from  furtive  fleeing  ves- 
sels woke  England  up,  filled  the  recruiting  of- 
fices, and  might  easily  have  been  the  means  of 
sending  Peggy  to  a  German  prison.  She  sat 
with  bent  head  and  down-gazing  eyes,  vainly 
struggling  for  composure;  vainly  trying  to  shut 
her  ears  to  the  triumphant  German  voices.  The 
waiter  changing  dishes  bent  over  and  murmured : 

"Madame  est  remarquee!" 

She  made  a  movement  with  her  hand  as  though 
the  room  was  whirling ;  and  the  waiter  said  louder 
that  it  would  soon  pass  away  if  madame  would 

[36] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

eat  and  remember  that  she  was  no  longer  on  the 
boat.  She  smiled,  ate,  and  afterward  looked 
quietly  about  her.  The  nations  had  grouped, 
with  the  exception  of  the  English;  there  were 
only  two  there,  and  they  sat,  like  herself,  at  sep- 
arate tables,  alone.  The  Belgians,  sad,  silent, 
were  easily  distinguishable  by  their  unalterable 
depression.  The  Americans  were  fraternizing, 
talking,  laughing. 

Peggy  caught  scraps  of  sentences  from  which 
she  could  know  that,  with  utter  frankness,  they 
were  telling  each  other  who  they  were  and  why 
they  were  there.  She  had  in  previous  travelling 
observed  this  national  candor,  with  that  sense  of 
superiority  felt  by  a  detached  and  reticent  peo- 
ple, who  can  talk  for  hours  on  general  subjects, 
and  end  without  curiosity  as  to  whom  they  have 
talked.  She  thought  some  were  ostentatious  in 
their  frankness,  as  though  anxious  that  every- 
body should  know  they  had  legitimate  reasons 
for  travelling  in  wartime. 

A  hilarious  burst  from  the  German  table 
brought  one  flashing  glance  from  Peggy  toward 
the  one  Englishman  within  direct  range.  To  her 
dismay  he  caught  it  and  came  over  instantly.  As 
he  might  be  supposed  to  be  approaching  the  Ger- 
man table,  silence  fell,  and  everybody  turned. 

[37] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"The  fire  may  be  uncomfortably  warm,"  he 
said  in  a  level,  quiet  voice.  "I  don't  know  wheth- 
er you  know  there  is  an  unoccupied  table  in  that 
corner." 

"Thank  you,"  Peggy  said,  as  promptly  as 
though  her  answer  did  not  almost  choke  her; 
"we  Americans  like  warmth." 

She  spoke  just  as  she  had  spoken  to  the  brown- 
eyed  man  on  the  pier  at  Folkestone ;  but  the  Eng- 
lishman resumed  his  seat  without  sense  of  re- 
buff. That  cool,  impersonal  tone  was  precisely 
right  to  him  in  refusing  a  small  courtesy  of- 
fered under  a  misapprehension. 

Peggy's  heart  glowed.  She  knew  that  this 
fellow-countryman  was  white-hot  inside  about 
Whitby,  and  that  comforted  her ;  and  she  thought 
that  his  effort  to  put  the  length  of  a  room  be- 
tween her  and  triumphant  Germans  was  the  most 
considerate  attention  ever  offered  to  her.  It 
steadied  her.  The  courtesy  was  doubly  welcome 
because  it  came  from  "one  of  the  right  sort." 
Accent,  pronunciation  and  manner  stamped  him 
unmistakably.  There  was  one  of  her  own  kind 
in  that  room  and  she  felt  less  utterly  alone.  This 
steady,  quiet  fellow-countryman,  if  he  were  on 
such  an  errand  as  hers,  would  never  flinch  if  he 
heard  that  London  had  fallen.  She  straight- 

[38] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

ened,  told  the  waiter  that  his  advice  had  been 
good,  that  the  room  had  ceased  to  roll  and  asked 
for  a  second  helping  of  fish. 

Peggy  thought  she  would  be  less  conspicuous 
if  she  were  not  alone.  Some  one  would  be  sure 
to  offer  help  at  the  station,  especially  as  she  had 
publicly  announced  herself  a  citizen  of  the  Unit- 
ed States.  But  he  must  be  the  right  sort.  How 
should  she  know  that?  She  was  utterly  at  a 
loss.  She  remembered  that  she  and  Geoffrey  had 
once — only  once — been  puzzled  about  an  Eng- 
lishman, and  Geoffrey  had  led  the  man  to  say 
four  words.  The  unconscious  probationer  had 
pronounced  Calais  to  rhyme  with  palace,  valet 
with  pallet;  had  uttered  grass  with  a  short,  not 
a  broad  a;  and  had  spoken  girl  so  that  it  would 
rhyme  with  neither  whirl  nor  curl. 

Geoffrey  had  thawed  instantly  and  had  after- 
ward said  that,  whatever  the  chap  had  fallen  to, 
"his  people  must  have  been  all  right;  he's  'coun- 
ty,' right  enough."  She  wondered  what  corres- 
ponded to  county  in  the  United  States;  so  far 
as  she  could  understand,  they  had  no  landed 
gentry.  She  had  known  cosmopolites,  of  course, 
who  founded  their  manners  on  English  stand- 
ards; but  none  of  these  was  in  the  room. 

Peggy,  admitting  that  she  had  no  shibboleths 
[39] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

for  the  men  of  her  adopted  nation,  watched 
casually  as  she  ate,  specially  considering  the  man 
who  had  offered  help  in  Folkestone  and  who 
might  offer  again.  He  was  sitting  at  a  table 
with  three  others  and  she  knew  he  had  often 
looked  at  her.  His  eyes  were  Italian,  but  all  the 
rest  of  him  was  unmistakably  American.  He 
was  too  brilliantly  good-looking;  he  was  large 
and  well  dressed ;  and  he  was  enj  oying  his  dinner 
immensely. 

The  meaning  of  that  boyish  grin  in  the  Pull- 
man was  clear  to  her  now;  he  was  without  self- 
consciousness.  If  anything  amused  him  he 
laughed.  If  anything  troubled  him  he  looked  as 
sorry  as  he  felt.  His  face  was  too  expressive; 
but  she  summed  him  up  as  "rather  decent,  if  not 
quite  the  thing,"  and  selected  him. 

A  man  entered  the  room.  Peggy  caught  her 
breath.  She  was  confronted  with  one  of  the  dan- 
gers she  had  foreseen,  but  she  was  not  prepared 
for  it  in  such  extreme  form.  The  newcomer  did 
not  glance  about,  but  took  a  seat  at  the  vacant 
table,  slouching,  with  bent  head.  Peggy  was 
shocked  at  the  change  in  a  once  gallant  boy. 

Charlie  Anstruther  had  gone  blithely,  as  one 
of  the  Naval  Division,  with  Geoff,  to  Antwerp, 
and  had  been  a  member  of  the  Collingwood  Bri- 

[40] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

gade,  which  had  escaped  into  Holland  and  been 
interned  by  the  Dutch  for  the  period  of  the  war. 
She  had  read  of  the  effect  of  internment;  of  the 
dreary  hopelessness  of  it;  of  the  gnawing  grief 
at  idleness  while  one's  country  called.  She  had 
almost  cried  over  a  letter  from  him;  to  see  him 
thus  now  roused  pity  beyond  thought  of  tears. 

She  hastily  paid  her  bill  and  escaped.  He  did 
not  raise  his  bowed  head.  She  hurried  to  the 
long,  dark  station.  The  train  was  made  up  and 
she  went  for  her  suitcase.  The  man  with  the  big 
brown  eyes  was  at  her  side  before  she  could  lift 
it. 

"Please  let  me,"  he  said. 

She  thought  her  thanks  effusive;  he  thought 
them  cool.  She  believed  her  permission  to  travel 
in  the  same  carriage  especially  gracious;  he 
thought  it  chilly.  She  was  pleased  when,  at  the 
last  moment,  the  heavy-eyed  Brazilian  entered 
the  railway  carriage.  She  welcomed  his  presence 
and  spoke  to  him  with  a  sympathetic  cordiality. 

"I  am  Humbert  Honest,  of  Chicago,"  said  the 
American.  "What's  your  state?" 

She  answered  that  she  came  from  Kankakee. 
He  eyed  her  and  said : 

"A  go-ahead  town  and  beautiful,  now  that  the 
state  capitol  is  finished." 

[41] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"It's  some  burgh!"  Peggy  answered,  having 
studied  up  slang. 

She  spoke  with  enthusiasm ;  but  she  was  quak- 
ing, and  deftly  she  altered  the  topic.  She  found 
this  man  to  be  very  manageable,  and  he  followed 
where  she  led;  but  it  was  clear  that  he  admired 
Kankakee,  for  every  once  in  a  while  he  spoke  of 
it. 

"That  palm  grove  in  the  Kankakee  capitol 
grounds  is  shooting  up  till  the  tops  hit  the  stars," 
he  said ;  and  Peggy  answered  that  the  fronds  were 
brushing  the  Milky  Way. 

Later  he  asked  whether  frosts  ever  really  hit 
the  orange  crop  at  Kankakee. 

"They  burn  great  kettles  of  smudgy  stuff  in 
the  orchards,"  Peggy  explained  promptly. 

She  had  read  about  this  somewhere.  She  de- 
scribed how  they  watched  the  thermometer  and 
made  preparation  when  the  temperature  fell. 
When  he  asked,  later,  whether  Kankakee  lemons 
were  marketed  under  a  brand,  she  answered — not 
to  appear  to  know  everything — that  she  was  not 
familiar  with  commercial  methods. 

"Anyway,"  he  said,  smiling,  "they  never  hand 
you  a  lemon  in  Kankakee." 

Peggy  laughed,  for  she  saw  that  this  remark 
was  meant  to  be  funny. 

[42] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"You  know  the  customs  of  the  place  well,"  she 
said.  "Did  you  live  there?" 

"I  covered  that  territory,"  he  answered. 

Peggy  dropped  questions  and  learned  his 
meaning.  She  understood  that  he  had  visited 
9  Kankakee  as  a  travelling  salesman,  which  she 
was  sure  meant  the  same  as  a  commercial  travel- 
ler. She  was  a  little  shocked,  for  she  had  been 
reared  with  prejudices  against  such  people;  but 
she  showed  no  sign  of  that.  She  led  him  to  talk 
of  himself  and  found  that  he  required  no  pressing. 
He  had  been  born  an  American  citizen  of  an 
American  mother ;  his  name,  Umberto  Onesti,  he 
had  anglicized  on  the  death  of  his  Italian  natural- 
ized father.  He  represented  automobiles  in  Ant- 
werp, where  Germans  had  stolen  forty  despite 
his  protests.  He  had  run  over  to  London  about 
this  shameless  interference  with  neutral  rights. 
Now  he  was  returning  to  save  the  other  forty  if 
he  could. 

He  did  not  tell  her  that  he  had  made  a  pro- 
found study  of  the  psychology  of  salesmanship, 
which  included  a  study  of  humanity;  that  the 
combination  of  an  American  brain  and  chin  with 
an  Italian  eve  and  voice  was  a  gift  from  heaven 

«/  c_-> 

sedulously  cultivated ;  and  that  he  had  been  called 

[43] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"a  live  American  wire,  insulated  by  an  Italian 
silk  covering." 

Peggy  was  genuinely  interested  when  he  told 
her,  with  naive  frankness,  of  his  struggles.  She 
liked,  too,  his  enthusiastic  patriotism.  He  owed 
everything  to  the  United  States,  he  said;  and, 
though  he  was  hot  for  intervention,  he  refused  to 
criticize  his  Government.  He  only  stopped  talk- 
ing when  the  train  stopped  at  Rozendaal. 

He  wiped  the  frost  from  the  window-pane  and 
looked  out  at  the  dimly-lighted  station,  peopled 
only  by  sentinels. 

"Here's  the  diving  board,"  he  said.  "You 
come  back  here  day  after  to-morrow  and  take  a 
header  from  civilization  into  barbarism."  He 
saw  her  glance  apprehensively  at  the  apparently 
sleeping  Brazilian.  "I  don't  mince  my  words," 
he  continued  defiantly.  "My  opinion  of  Ger- 
mans went  with  every  car  they  stole."  And  he 
bluntly  enlarged  this  theme,  telling  of  some  Ant- 
werp happenings  of  which  he  had  personal  knowl- 
edge. There  were  so  many  that  he  had  not  fin- 
ished when  the  lights  of  Rotterdam  became  vis- 
ible. 

The  Brazilian,  courteously  interrupting,  spoke 
for  the  first  time.  He  repeated  the  story  of  the 

[44] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

diamonds,  including  the  address  in  Lange  Leem- 
straat.  Pie  ended  by  saying: 

"Bring  them  out,  Mr.  Honest.  Take  what 
you  like  of  them — up  to  half." 

Mr.  Plonest's  dark  eyes  never  left  those  of  the 
Brazilian  until  the  latter  ceased  to  speak.  Then 
the  long,  curling  lashes  drooped  for  an  instant 
as  their  owner  reflected. 

"I'll  do  it,"  he  answered,  at  length,  in  French, 
quite  intelligible  but  evidently  picked  up.  "I 
take  no  responsibility,  of  course;  and  I  don't 
know  when  I'm  coming  out.  Give  me  your  ad- 
dress and  tell  me  more  about  this  landlady  in 
the  shell-pitted  house."  He  listened  intently: 
"Here's  my  card  and  Rotterdam  address.  If 
they  are  found  on  me,  and  taken,  you  must  not 
kick.  Now  we'd  better  not  arrive  at  Rotterdam 
together ;  and  don't  come  near  me  there." 

The  Brazilian  uttered  melancholy  thanks, 
picked  up  his  bag,  and  went  out  into  the  corridor. 

"He's  a  fool !"  said  Humbert  Honest.  "I'd  go 
into  a  penitentiary  and  shout  the  story  to  the  pris- 
oners rather  than  trust  to  Germans.  Yet  he  is 
sorry  already  that  he  put  it  up  to  me." 

"Sorry?    How  do  you  know  that?" 

"Didn't  you  see  the  way  he  looked  at  me  when 
I  said  they  might  be  taken  from  me?  If  they  are 

[45] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

he'll  never  believe  it.     And  that's  what  I'm  up 
against — and  all  for  kindness  too!    But  he's  des- , 
perate,"  he  added,  grinning;  "so  he  trusts  me. 
I  know  the  man  by  sight.    I've  seen  him  in  Ant- 
werp." 

The  Brazilian  opened  the  door  and  thrust  in  a 
livid  face:  "Would  monsieur  bring  only  half? 
If  monsieur  should  be  searched " 

"You  trust  me  or  you  don't,  senor,"  said  Hon- 
est. "I'll  do  the  best  I  can;  and  I'm  not  asking 
anything.  See?"  He  waved  the  Brazilian  away 
as  the  train  slackened.  "Nerve  all  gone,"  he 
said;  "lots  about  that  way.  He'll  speak  to  me 
once  too  often  and  some  secret  agent  will  hear  it. 
The  Germans  will  put  his  last  shiny  stone  into 
my  last  auto,  and  then — zipp  for  Aachen  I  Once 
past  that  town — good-bye!" 

At  the  station  Mr.  Honest  was  really  useful, 
securing  for  her  the  last  remaining  taxi.  She 
thanked  him  with  frank  gratitude  and  departed 
with  a  conviction  that  she  had  played  her  part  to 
perfection. 

At  her  hotel  she  went  straight  to  her  room. 
She  slept  dreamlessly,  and  awoke,  protesting,  to 
the  eight-o'clock  knock,  which  heralded  the  coffee 
and  rolls ;  but  she  sprang  up  to  unbolt  the  door, 
her  tray  she  found  a  parcel  addressed  to  her, 
[46] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

which,  opened,  disclosed  an  orange  and  a  piece 
of  paper  inscribed:  "With  the  compliments  of 
Humbert  Honest."  She  laughed  at  this  singular 
attention.  She  had  heard  that  Americans  loved 
morning  fruit  and  she  assumed  that  Mr.  Honest 
was  trying  to  be  especially  nice.  He  had  evi- 
dently wished  not  only  to  please  her  palate  but 
to  gratify  her  home  pride.  She  remembered  he 
had  spoken  of  Kankakee  oranges  and  she  won- 
dered whether  this  was  one. 

She  examined  his  handwriting  and  thought 
it  too  clear  and  commercial.  She  turned  the 
paper,  torn  apparently  from  a  notebook,  and  saw 
a  map  of  the  state  of  Illinois.  A  blue-pencilled 
cross  marked  Kankakee,  and  another,  Spring- 
field; and  the  first-named  town  was  a  circle  and 
the  other  a  star.  Why  should  he  mark  Spring- 
field? And  why  mark  a  cross  in  the  margin 
against  the  fortieth  parallel  of  latitude?  The 
thought  came  flashing  that  Kankakee  was  not 
the  capital  of  Illinois  and  that  oranges  could  not 
grow  so  far  north! 

"The  mongrel  bagman !"  cried  forcible  Peggy, 
flushing  red  with  anger. 

She  eyed  the  orange  as  though  to  pierce  the 
rind  for  a  meaning.  Was  it  a  horrid  joke?  Was 
it  a  message  of  enmity?  Did  it  threaten  black- 

[47] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

mail?  Could  its  sender  be  bought?  Had  he  a 
price?  Did  he  want  money? 

"It's  what  you  might  expect,"  Peggy 
thought,  "from  a  man  with  the  jaw  of  a  bulldog 
and  the  eyes  of  a  Pekingese." 

But  she  was  very  anxious. 


[48] 


II 


Hot,  light  white  rolls !  Peggy  munched  them 
as  she  dressed,  rosy  red  from  her  ice-cold  bath. 
She  paused  from  time  to  time  and  looked  vin- 
dictively at  the  orange;  and  each  time  she  shook 
her  head,  with  a  menace,  and  her  fine  nostrils 
quivered.  Her  upper  lip  twisted  into  a  curve 
as  she  recalled  what  she  had  heard  of  commercial 
travellers — a  race  apart,  sneaking  into  back  doors 
of  commercial  firms,  there  to  be  snubbed  by  pro- 
prietors while  they  rubbed  their  hands  together 
and  smiled  at  insults;  a  class  herded  separately 
in  the  commercial  room  at  provincial  hotels  while 
respectable  people  ate  in  the  coffee-room;  such 
bounders  that  if  an  obnoxious  man  got  into  a 
first-class  carriage  he  was  always  put  down  for  a 
commercial  person,  swaggering  among  his  bet- 
ters. She  had  never  met  one  before,  so  far  as  she 
knew,  and  her  anger  was  trebled  because  its 
source  was  one  of  the  despised  class ;  and  trebled 
again  because  the  man  had  made  a  small  success 
of  his  miserable  life  and  dared  to  hold  toward 
her  the  manner  of  an  equal. 

[49] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

She  snapped  viciously  the  clasp  of  the  slide  on 
the  back  of  her  head  and  rang  for  two  eggs  and 
buttered  toast.  The  little  chambermaid  looked, 
in  her  close-bound  cap,  as  most  Dutch  maids  do, 
like  the  baby  head  of  Charles  II  in  Vandyke's 
painting.  She  understood;  she  shook  her  head 
but  could  not  explain.  Another  came  and,  with 
much  difficulty,  made  it  clear  that  hotels  were 
allowed  a  little  white  flour  for  morning  rolls,  but 
that  the  bread  was  made  of  war  flour,  which  re- 
fused to  toast;  also — yes;  eggs  could  be  had, 
perhaps,  if  madame  paid.  Peggy  was  astonished 
that  any  nation  should  be  short  of  fine  white 
flour;  and  was  proud  that  this  first  experience  of 
the  material  sacrifices  of  war  should  come  in  a 
neutral  country.  She  ordered  war  bread,  hon- 
orably refusing  more  than  her  share  of  the  rolls, 
and  ate  it  as  a  duty. 

England  could  never  come  to  such  stuff. 
England  ruled  the  waves  and  could  import  wheat 
from  everywhere ;  besides,  the  war  would  be  over 
in  the  spring.  Everybody  knew  that  Germany 
could  not  last  longer  than  that.  Germany's  man- 
power was  already  declining;  that  had  been 
proved  over  and  over.  And  everybody  knew  that 
the  German  harvest  had  been  light  and  that  there 
were  no  resources  of  food. 

[50] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

Peggy  finished  her  breakfast,  sorry  for  poor 
neutral  Holland  and  doubly  proud  of  her  home- 
land. There  was  a  great  meaning  in  white  flour; 
it  meant  merchant  fleets  coming  and  going  at 
will;  great  granaries  in  loyal-daughter  lands; 
and  a  calm,  unruffled  people,  inexorably  con- 
quering. But  these  reflections  on  the  significance 
of  white  flour  were  running  side  by  side  with 
thoughts  on  the  meaning  of  an  orange.  From 
time  to  time,  as  she  was  packing,  she  eyed 
obliquely  the  yellow  monstrosity  on  the  chimney- 
piece  above  the  stove.  Suddenly  it  glowed  blood- 
red;  and  she  jumped  up,  startled,  to  see  that  the 
back  of  the  stove  had  become  red-hot  and  was 
throwing  baleful  gleams  about.  She  snatched 
the  orange  up,  wrapped  it  in  the  map  of  Illinois, 
and  flung  it  into  the  blaze. 

The  protesting  sizzle  that  soon  came  soothed 
her  ears  and  helped  her  to  consider.  Blackmail? 
Must  that  stop  her  on  the  thresholds  of  Belgium 
and  Geoffrey?  She  stood,  with  drooped  head, 
clasping  her  hands,  absorbed;  and  it  seemed  by 
degrees  clear  to  her  that  it  was  not  blackmail. 
Humbert  Honest's  face  and  manner  were  not 
those  of  the  sly,  cruel  criminal,  who  could  be 
bought  for  money.  A  wretched  joke?  She  con- 
sidered this  as  she  finished  lacing  her  boots.  But 

[51] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

no  man  would  twist  a  girl  into  a  knot  of  silly  lies 
about  Kankakee  just  to  laugh  boorishly  at  her 
the  next  morning.  She  straightened,  with  a 
grimace,  driven  to  a  nauseating  conclusion :  The 
man  was  a  woman  stalker.  She  was  alone,  un- 
protected; fair  prey  for  such  as  he.  His  senti- 
mental eyes;  his  soft,  carrying  voice;  his  "brute 
of  a  chin" — yes ;  they  were  the  marks  of  one  who 
was  a  cad  to  the  marrow.  Must  that  stop  her 
going  to  Geoffrey  ? 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders;  went  over  to  the 
mirror  and  studied  her  face,  turning  her  head 
slowly  from  side  to  side.  For  the  first  time  in 
her  life  she  appraised  her  eyes  and  her  lips  and 
her  half  profile  and  her  complexion  for  their 
worth  in  a  conflict  with  one  of  the  other  sex. 
Could  she  so  charm  him  that  he  would  trust  to 
promises?  Could  she  make  him  believe  she  was 
so  much  interested  in  him  that  he  would  await  her 
return  from  Belgium?  Then,  perhaps,  Geoffrey 
and  Charlie  Anstruther,  between  them,  broken 
as  they  were,  could  manage  somehow  to  give  him 
a  good  hiding.  The  remains  of  the  orange  ex- 
ploded with  a  vicious  little  pop.  She  thought  it 
a  good  omen  and  smiled  dryly.  She  put  on  her 
hat,  smoothed  her  hair  with  swift  upward  pats 

[52] 


THE  WHITE  HOUSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

of  her  left  hand,  and  swept  the  room  with  a  last 
glance  as  she  fastened  her  moleskin  coat. 

Her  single  suitcase  was  packed,  and  she  was 
ready  to  rush  away  if  she  found  she  could  get 
her  papers  signed  in  time  for  the  one  train  of  the 
day  to  Rozendaal.  She  walked  quietly  down  the 
hall,  sure  that  Humbert  Honest  was  lying  in 
wait.  It  was  horrid;  but  she  must  cajole  and 
charm  and  tease  and  lie  and  promise.  If  his 
message  meant  that — and  what  else  could  it 
mean? — she  would  play  mouse  to  his  cat  until 

Geoffrey  was  out  of  Belgium.  Then This 

outdoor,  fresh-air  girl,  who  had  what  she  called 
men  pals,  but  who  hated  sickly  flirtations  and 
despised  sentimental  philanderings,  shook  her 
head,  with  a  menace,  and  got  out  of  the  elevator 
with  a  lovely  pink  flush  on  her  cheeks. 

She  entered  the  lounge  with  the  easy  uncon- 
sciousness of  her  training,  which  taught  that  ef- 
fort should  seem  effortless.  She  resolved  that 
she  would  be  her  natural  self  until  need  came  to 
be  something  else,  and  that  she  would  call  an 
orange  an  orange  until  told  it  was  something 
more. 

She  saw  him  across  the  room.  He  seemed 
taller  than  she  had  thought,  his  chin  more  prom- 
inent and  his  eyes  less  effeminate;  and  he  came 

[53] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

striding  over  with  a  suggestion  of  virility  and 
force. 

The  aloofness  she  had  laid  aside  the  night  be- 
fore veiled  her  about  like  an  invisible  net.  Un- 
consciously, unobtrusively,  but  none  the  less  ef- 
fectively, she  appeared  to  challenge  the  world  to 
prove  its  right  to  address  her  before  addressing 
her.  She  saw  the  man's  expressive  eyes  brighten 
with  unmistakable  admiration  as  he  crossed ;  saw 
them  drop  as  he  came  within  the  radius  of  her 
chill.  She  thought,  with  satisfaction,  that, 
though  he  might  be  crudely  insensible  to  class 
distinctions,  he  was  acutely  sensitive  to  shades 
of  manner. 

She  thanked  him  for  the  fruit  and  went  on 
toward  the  door;  but  he  asked  for  five  minutes. 
She  paused,  glanced  at  her  wrist  watch  and  said, 
with  gracious  condescension,  that  it  was  still  very 
early;  that  she  could  and  would,  with  pleasure, 
spare  him  even  ten. 

"You  talk  French  like  a  Parisian,  Mrs.  Far- 
go," he  began  abruptly;  "English  like  a  Lon- 
doner." 

"Oh,  like  a  cockney! — I  hope  not,"  she  broke 
in,  with  such  energy  that  he  laughed. 

His  voice  was  so  soft  and  musical  that  an 
enemy  might  call  it  suave ;  but  his  laugh  was  real 

[54] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

mirth.  Peggy  began  to  be  puzzled.  Such  men 
as  this  one,  she  thought,  do  not  laugh  innocently. 

"You  speak  it  like  an  Englishwoman,"  he  cor- 
rected. 

"And  how  should  it  be  spoken?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  of  course  you  have  the  right  to  speak  your 
own  tongue  as  you  like,"  he  said,  with  a  signifi- 
cant accent  on  the  your.  "The  language  you 
haven't  learned  is  American.  You  have  cut  off 
chunks  of  two-year-old  American  slang  and  in- 
serted them  into  your  talk  neatly.  They  are 
paste  diamonds  in  a  beautiful  setting.  You  don't 
know  the  North  from  the  South." 

Peggy  owned  up.    She  lifted  her  head. 

"I  am  English,"  she  said;  and  she  was  sur- 
prised that  there  was  a  catch  in 'her  voice. 

Six  months  before  she  would  have  called  any- 
body theatrical  who  uttered  such  a  commonplace, 
even  with  her  restrained  ardor.  But  the  fact 
was  now  not  a  commonplace.  She  was  not  only 
proud  that  she  was  English  but  proud  in  pro- 
claiming it. 

"Fine!"  he  cried  as  he  bent  over  her.  "I  like 
to  hear  that.  I  like  to  hear  you  say  it  like  that. 
Now  I  feel  just  like  that  about  my  country.  If 
my  father  had  not  emigrated,  with  a  pick  and 
shovel,  I  should  be  an  Italian  peasant  now.  I 

[55] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

owe  a  big  debt  to  the  U.  S.  A.  And  that's  why 
I  butted  in.  There  was  no  chance  to  say  it  last 
night.  I  dared  not  write;  no  one  knows  who 
reads  letters  these  days.  I  had  brought  a  few 
oranges  from  London ;  so  I  sent  my  message  like 
that.  You  hold  an  American  passport.  Forged 
American  papers  have  been  scattered  about  like 
leaves  in  the  fall;  and  some  have  been  obtained 
by  fraud." 

She  straightened  involuntarily  and  her  eyes 
widened. 

"I  don't  suspect  you  of  anything  serious,"  he 
went  on.  "I  didn't  last  night.  Honest,  I  didn't. 
But  I  do  think  you're  taking  a  great  big  chance 
for  the  sake  of  your  friends  and  their  children. 
You've  counted  the  cost  to  yourself,  of  course; 
so,  if  you  don't  put  it  over  I'll  say  nothing  about 
German  prisons  and  firing  squads.  But  have 
you  counted  the  cost  to  Americans  ?  You  haven't, 
of  course.  You've  never  thought  that  if  you're 
found  out  you'll  help  to  discredit  every  American 
passport  and  put  Americans  to  all  kinds  of 
trouble — and  danger  too.  I'm  bound  to  notify 
the  consulate." 

A  belated  great  truth  suddenly  burst  on  Peggy 
— a  truth  that  had  not  occurred  to  Lady  Daintry 
or  impressed  itself  on  the  girl.  She  remembered 

[56] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

that  marriage  changes  nationality;  and  inciden- 
tally that  she  was  supposed  to  have  a  husband. 

"You  force  my  poor  little  secret  from  me," 
she  said.  "I  may  be  slighted,  even  insulted  per- 
haps, if  it  is  known  that  I  have  never  been  in  the 
United  States;  that  I  am  British-born.  So  my 
American  husband  and  I 

Humbert  Honest  stepped  back,  flinging  up 
his  hands.  She  had  never  seen  so  sudden  a  change 
in  a  face. 

"American  by  marriage,"  he  said;  "and  all 
legal  and  right!  And  I  never  thought  of  that! 

I'm  a  bat-eyed  butter-in.  I Of  course  you 

had  to  put  up  the  bluff!  They  can't  call  it. 
How  would  I  know  a  Berlin  lady  from  a  Vienna 
dame?  How  will  any  bullet-headed  Prussian 
know  Kankakee  from  England?  Mrs.  Fargo,  I 
humbly  ask  your  pardon  for  interfering  with 
what  was  none  of  my  business." 

Peggy  bowed,  with  a  high  dignity,  and  went 
out.  She  smiled  cheerfully  in  the  street.  She 
liked  the  man.  She  did  some  small  shopping  and 
then  found  the  American  Consulate.  She  stood 
and  looked  at  the  American  Eagle  on  the  shield, 
hanging  on  the  walls  of  a  quaint,  narrow  house 
in  an  Old  World  street — her  first  real  test;  but 
it  proved  to  be  no  test. 

[57] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

Humbert  Honest  was  there,  arranging  his  own 
credentials.  He  introduced  her,  indorsed  her, 
said  that  her  husband  was  his  oldest  friend,  and 
got  her  out  within  seven  minutes. 

"Now  for  the  Germans!"  he  said.  "Will  you 
take  me  in  your  taxi?" 

She  had  resolved  honorably  that  she  would 
allow  no  one  to  involve  himself  in  her  dangerous 
affair;  but  she  had  no  means  of  escaping  from  a 
young  man  determined  to  expiate  a  great  wrong 
done  to  her. 

No  tremors  came  to  her  when  the  taxicab 
stopped  in  front  of  the  German  Eagle.  As  she 
calmly  crossed  the  sidewalk  she  subconsciously 
wondered  why  the  peace-loving  Americans  had 
also  adopted  this  predatory  bird,  and  whether 
they  would  always  continue  to  stamp  it  on  the 
dollars  they  were  making. 

A  crowd  was  inside,  and  momentary  silence 
at  sight  of  her  and  her  little  flag;  a  woman's  back 
conspicuously  turned  on  her;  a  pair  of  blue  sau- 
cer eyes  trying  to  shoot  dagger  glances  from 
above  round  pink  cheeks.  She  caught  a  muttered 
comment  in  German  about  Yankees  who  sold 
their  souls  for  gold;  and  then  they  were  ap- 
proached by  a  young  man  who  greeted  Mr.  Hon- 
est cordially  and  invited  them  into  a  private  office. 

[58] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

Honest  promptly  guaranteed  her  American 
citizenship  and  her  neutral  sentiments,  her  er- 
rand, and  her  husband  in  Brussels.  She  an- 
swered a  dozen  perfunctory  questions,  produced 
her  viseed  passport  and  the  letters  from  the  moth- 
ers of  the  children,  and  within  ten  minutes  was 
clasping  tightly  the  pass  that  finally  opened  the 
road  to  Geoffrey. 

She  was  astonished  when  Humbert  Honest 
was  politely  asked  to  wait  a  day  or  two.  He 
scowled;  then  laughed. 

"Reports  of  what  I  did  and  whom  I  saw  in 
London  have  not  come  from  your  secret  agents 
over  there,"  he  said. 

The  vice  consul  winked  pleasantly  and  denied 
this. 

"Come,"  said  Honest  to  Peggy;  "you  may  still 
make  it." 

"Make  what?"  she  asked,  breathless  in  the  taxi. 

"The  train  to  Rozendaal.  My  car  is  waiting 
at  the  hotel.  It  is  at  your  service." 

Peggy  was  conscience-stricken.  In  his  won- 
derful effective  zeal  for  expiation  Humbert  Hon- 
est had  deeply  involved  himself.  He  had  a  right 
to  the  whole  truth  and  to  withdraw  his  indorse- 
ments if  he  should  so  choose;  but  Peggy  shut 
heart  and  thought  to  all  but  a  twin  brother  in 

[59] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

Belgium,  wounded.  She  thanked  him  quietly, 
and  her  shining  eyes  showed  only  gratitude  and 
hid  no  remorse.  The  car  was  waiting.  He  ran 
for  her  suitcase. 

"Remember,"  he  said,  "I  have  sworn  I've 
known  your  husband  all  my  life.  If  we  meet  in 
Belgium  he  must  say,  'Hum,  old  man,  how  are 
you?'  and  register  brotherly  love  on  his,  no 
doubt,  handsome  face." 

"He  shall;  oh,  he  shall!"  said  Peggy,  and  she 
grasped  his  hand  and  pressed  it. 

"Good  luck!"  he  called  after  her,  and  she 
waved  her  hand. 

The  sun  shone  brilliantly,  the  air  was  tingling 
cold,  thin  ice  covered  the  canals,  and  the  auto 
bumped  over  frozen  mud.  Peggy  apparently 
watched  windmills  and  glanced  at  farmsteads; 
but  she  was  thinking  of  Geoffrey.  She  awoke  to 
her  surroundings  only  when  a  troop  of  Dutch 
cavalry  trotted  by.  The  excellent  alignment, 
the  soldierly  bearing  and  admirable  seat  of  the 
men,  and,  above  all,  the  quality  of  the  horses, 
surprised  and  pleased  her. 

This  was  the  only  sign  of  war  she  saw  in 
long  stretches  of  flat,  frozen  country.  When  at 
last  the  car  drew  up  at  Rozendaal  Station  she 
found  there  came  need  of  hurry.  The  lawless 

[60] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

neutral  train,  which  kept  no  regular  hours,  was 
about  to  move.  She  was  hustled  on  board  by  a 
Dutch  soldier. 

Peggy  glanced  at  the  couple  opposite,  sump- 
tuously dressed  in  furs — the  man  a  trimmed  dan- 
dy, with  an  imperial,  who  looked  like  a  small 
Napoleon  Third ;  the  woman  with  great  diamonds 
in  her  ears.  They  were  talking  with  a  Dutch 
lady. 

"Moi,  je  suis  Beige"  said  the  lady  with  the 
diamonds. 

"Mon  Dieu!"  cried  the  Dutch  lady.  "N'avez 
vous  pas  peur?" 

The  couple  shrugged. 

"Why  do  you  wear  your  diamonds?"  asked 
the  Dutch  lady. 

"The  pigs  might  pick  my  pockets,"  said  the 
Belgian;  "but  even  they  will  not  rob  my  ears." 

Peggy  looked  into  their  faces.  It  was  her 
first  close  sight  of  that  strained,  tense  expres- 
sion which  stamped  the  dignity  of  suffering  on 
the  face  of  a  nation,  and  lifted  every  glance  from 
the  eyes  of  its  people  into  an  appeal  to  the  con- 
science of  the  world.  Peggy  broke  into  the  talk 
and  said  she  had  read  that  order  was  very  good 
in  Antwerp. 

[61] 


THE  WHITE  HOUSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"There  is  always  order  in  a  prison,"  said  the 
woman.  "I " 

She  stopped  and  stared  out  at  nothing,  while 
her  husband  continued  to  look  out  from  his  side 
at  nothing.  Peggy,  dumb,  bowed  her  head.  Not 
a  word  was  said  until  the  train  drew  up  at  Es- 
schen. 

"Canaille!"  the  woman  hissed  low ;  and  Peggy 
saw  a  German  soldier  standing,  rifle  in  hand,  with 
fixed  bayonet. 

Peggy,  on  the  platform,  was  caught  in  a 
throng  of  tanned  and  toilworn  Belgian  peasants, 
swept  through  a  doorway,  and  carried  to  the 
head  of  the  waiting-room.  The  rough  hands  of 
a  German  private  felt  in  and  about  her  suitcase 
while  another  private  examined  her  passport. 
She  watched  this  silent,  brooding  crowd,  who 
had  chosen  to  return  to  slavery  at  home  rather 
than  to  remain  in  refugee  camps  in  Holland  or 
England.  The  faces  of  the  men  wore  such  an 
expression  that  pity  was  sacrilege. 

Peggy  glanced  at  the  one  German  officer  in 
the  room.  He  stood  upright,  not  stiff,  his  hands 
negligently  by  his  side,  his  calm,  kindly  eyes 
quietly  overlooking  the  scene.  No  Prussian,  no 
Junker,  no  barracks-living  officer,  that ;  a  scholar, 
perhaps,  prematurely  grey  at  forty.  He  could 

[62] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

stand  like  that  and  face  these  haunting  eyes,  and 
not  go  out  and  kill  himself  for  shame  of  his 
country ! 

Peggy  turned  her  eyes  on  the  women,  and  she 
saw  them  sane  and  calm-eyed  in  comparison  with 
the  men;  and  this  puzzled  her,  and  made  her 
think  them  dull  and  stupid  until  suddenly  she 
perceived  and  understood  the  wonder  of  mother- 
hood. The  women  were  too  busy  to  brood.  She 
smiled  at  a  mother  nursing  her  child.  The 
woman  smiled  back  and  glanced  down  at  her 
baby.  ]STo  past  haunted,  no  future  troubled  the 
mother.  Her  child  had  food. 

Peggy  saw  that  the  crowd  held  no  young  girls, 
and  no  young  men  except  priests,  who  wore  long 
cassocks  and  shovel  hats,  and  who  nearly  all 
smoked  very  bad  cigars.  Most  of  the  peasants 
were  tinged  with  grey  and  doubled  under  heavy 
loads,  which  included  at  least  the  family  bedtick- 
ing  and  now  and  again  a  small  feather-bed.  The 
woman  with  the  diamonds  was  conspicuous;  and 
Peggy  wished  that  this  woman  could  exchange 
her  earrings  for  two  children,  and  so  lose  that 
half-mad  tightening  of  the  muscles  round  the 
large,  rather  vacant  blue  eyes.  It  was  the  first 
time  Peggy  had  ever  looked  at  a  number  of  peo- 
ple without  classing  them.  She  did  not  say  to 

[63] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

herself  that  these  were  just  human  beings  and 
that  she  was  one  of  them ;  she  felt  it. 

She  was  about  to  stretch  out  her  arms  and  take 
a  child  from  a  tired  mother  when  she  was  asked 
explanations  about  a  man's  clothing  and  the 
missing  man.  The  officer,  exceptionally,  had  no 
English  and  little  French.  Peggy  told  her  lie 
in  halting  German  and  it  was  the  more  effective 
from  her  cold  aloofness.  She  saw  that  the  first 
German  officer  she  encountered  was  conscious  of 
her  attitude,  and  that  he  felt  it;  and  it  was  the 
better  remembered  afterward,  for  it  was  the  only 
instance  of  the  kind  in  her  journey.  She  could 
not  have  acted  differently  if  her  admission  to 
Belgium  had  been  at  stake.  She  was  moved  to 
new  depths. 

The  officer  passed  her  on  with  a  wave  of  the 
hand,  and  she  took  her  seat  in  a  corner  of  the  new 
train  and  watched  these  families  patiently  gath- 
ering anew  on  the  platform  the  intimate  little 
personal  belongings  the  German  soldiers  had 
rudely  thrust  back  into  their  bags  and  parcels. 
There  were  new  warm  clothes  everywhere,  she 
saw,  and  well-shod  children.  The  refugee  com- 
mittees had  sent  them  all  back  well  equipped  f  of 
the  winter.  She  turned  her  head  as  some  Ger 

[64] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

mans  passed  along  the  platform  laughing  and 
talking. 

The  outgoing  neutral  train  was  on  the  move 
for  Rozendaal  and  freedom.  From  the  carriage 
opposite  a  pair  of  eyes  gazed  at  her  from  between 
a  low-drawn  cap  and  a  huge  coarse  muffler.  They 
were  fixed  on  her  with  such  intensity,  such  vivid, 
eager  recognition,  that  her  glance  responded. 
Their  owner  flipped  back  his  cap ;  and  there  was 
just  time,  before  he  passed  out  of  sight,  for  her 
to  smile  at  her  brother  Geoffrey ! 


65 


Ill 


Peggy  never  knew  anything  of  that  journey 
from  Esschen  to  Antwerp.  Her  heart  and  het 
thought  were  with  Geoffrey — across  the  Border, 
free.  If  only  Humbert  Honest  had  not  been  so 
dreadfully  penitent  and  efficient ;  if  she  had  been 

held  back  but  one  day A  trifle,  this,  after  all; 

for  Geoffrey  was  free ! 

The  Germans  in  her  carriage,  tourists,  come  to 
see  their  new  city  of  Antwerp,  were  aflame  with 
curiosity  and  interest.  The  great  stretches  of 
barbed-wire  entanglements  on  right  and  left 
along  the  border;  the  hacked  and  burned  wood- 
lands, with  here  and  there  a  blackened  pile  of 
bricks  where  a  country  house  had  stood;  the 
empty  fields  and  empty  roads  and  empty  houses, 
which  succeeded  the  border  destruction ;  the  great 
guns  here  and  there,  watched  over  by  solitary  fig- 
ures in  grey;  the  grotesque  skeletons  of  over- 
turned locomotives  and  cars;  the  grass-grown 
streets  by  the  deserted  quays,  where  dead  ships 
thrust  up  rusty  funnels;  the  pierced  and  shat- 
tered and  crumbled  houses  in  the  shelled  suburbs 

[66] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

— this  ruin  and  waste  and  desolation  excited  the 
deep  compassion  of  these  elderly  commercial 
travellers,  who  had  never  been  in  any  war  zone 
until  now. 

They  were  very  sorry  that  Belgium  had  not 
known  her  duty  by  Germany  and  had  called 
down  on  herself  such  merited  punishment.  But 
the  lesson  had  undoubtedly  been  learned.  The 
good  German  Kultur  and  perfect  German  or- 
ganization would  lift  up  and  improve  these  poor 
people  and  they  would  come  to  be  grateful.  They 
should  share  in  the  coming  prosperity.  Germans 
were  generous.  Yes ;  a  German  Antwerp  would 
bring  riches  enough  for  all. 

They  were  not  smug  hypocrites,  these  three 
simple,  honest,  German  travelling  salesmen. 
They  believed  all  they  said.  That  belief  is  what 
the  world  is  in  arms  against. 

Peggy  heard  none  of  it,  saw  nothing,  and 
woke  to  her  surroundings  surprised  to  find  the 
train  in  the  beautiful  central  station  at  Antwerp. 

The  same  dumb  cowed  crowd  as  at  Esschen; 
the  same  rough  examination,  which  never  found 
anything — for  who  would  go  on  such  a  journey 
with  suspicious  possessions? — the  same  sombre, 
brooding  shadow  over  human  souls.  But  all  was 
changed  to  Peggy,  because  she  was  changed. 

[67] 


THE  TTHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

Geoffrey  was  safe.  She  had  nothing  to  hide; 
nothing  to  fear.  She  wasted  no  time  in  idle  sym- 
pathy, but  blithely  did  things.  She  relieved  over- 
burdened mothers  of  children,  ordered  German 
soldiers  about,  and  saw  three  large  families,  in- 
cluding two  feather-beds,  through  the  barrier. 

When  at  last  she  had  time  to  think  about  her- 
self she  cheerfully  explained  away  once  more 
those  men's  clothes,  soon  to  be  given  to  some 
needy  Belgian,  and  went,  as  directed,  to  a  room 
for  personal  search.  The  woman  searcher  re- 
laxed grim  lips  at  the  entrance  of  this  vital, 
cheerful  American  girl,  so  obedient,  so  willing  to 
undress  if  demanded,  so  careful  to  speak  in  Ger- 
man. She  asked  whether  anything  was  concealed 
on  the  person,  passed  a  formal  hand  over  Peggy's 
chest  and  back,  and  nodded  her  head. 

ffAuf  wiederseJien!"  said  Peggy;  and  the  girl 
smiled  and  remembered  on  the  outward  journey. 
Peggy  was  free  of  Belgium.  She  was  surprised 
to  find  porters  waiting  at  the  head  of  the  fine 
stairway  leading  to  the  Salle  des  Las  Perdus — 
elderly  Flemings,  heavy-eyed,  humble.  She  was 
more  surprised  at  the  effect  of  her  sudden  ap- 
pearance. Their  worn  faces  brightened;  they 
smiled,  all  of  them — human  smiles,  warm,  grate- 
ful. She  did  not  understand,  but  responded. 

[68] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

One  took  her  suitcase  and  she  followed,  look- 
ing for  the  great  bronze  gates.  They  stood, 
though  the  English  papers  had  filled  columns 
about  their  removal.  Sandbags  outside,  and 
guns  projecting  down  the  Avenue  de  Keyser, 
and  a  long  queue  of  watching  women,  poorly 
dressed,  dishevelled — some  of  these  caught  Peg- 
gy's eye;  and  then  surely  came  the  brightened 
face  and  welcoming  smile.  Peggy  asked  in 
French  what  they  were  waiting  for. 

"For  those  they  have  lost,  madame.  Some- 
times one  comes  back.  It  is  as  from  the  dead.'* 

Peggy  stopped  in  midstreet  and  looked  back. 
She  understood  something  of  the  meaning  of 
the  dispersal  of  a  people. 

"Why  do  they  smile  at  me?"  she  asked  as  she 
turned. 

"Madame  is  American." 

She  began  to  understand  the  meaning  of  a 
nation's  gratitude. 

"Army  headquarters?"  she  asked. 

"The  hotel,  madame."  !• 

"I  cannot  go  there." 

Armed  sentries  paced,  officers  came  and  went 
in  a  stream.  The  porter  glanced  about. 

"The  pigs  are  everywhere,"  he  muttered. 
"The  others  are  just  the  same." 

[69] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

So  she  followed  up  the  long  corridor  and  was 
received  by  a  uniformed  Belgian  porter  as 
though  such  guests  were  usual.  She  proceeded 
just  as  she  had  planned — just  as  if  Geoffrey 
were  still  in  Belgium.  The  wording  of  her  pass- 
port, the  contents  of  her  suitcase  and  the  story 
she  had  told  compelled  that.  She  registered 
"Montgomery  and  Mrs.  Fargo,"  took  two  rooms, 
and  said  that  her  husband  might  turn  up  at  any 
moment.  Upstairs,  she  tidied  herself;  then, 
laughing  at  the  thought  of  Geoffrey  safe  in  Hol- 
land, she  laid  out  his  clothes  as  she  had  seen  his 
valet  lay  them  out.  If  the  room  should  be 
searched  in  her  absence  there  was  proof  of  her 
story. 

She  went  out  in  the  early  winter  twilight  to 
do  the  shopping  necessary  when  a  woman  travels 
with  a  suitcase  filled  with  men's  clothing.  She 
turned  the  corner  of  the  Avenue  de  Keyser  and 
stood  astonished,  shocked.  The  wide  boulevard 
was  a  brilliant  flood  of  light,  its  sidewalks 
thronged,  its  street  cars  filled ;  its  broad  roadway 
somewhat  empty,  but  enlivened  by  rushing  auto- 
mobiles, all  in  a  reckless,  careless  hurry.  Peggy 
thought  of  darkened  London  as  a  capital  in 
mourning  of  nights  for  a  sister  city ;  and  all  the 
while  that  sister  city  was  holding  high  revel.  She 

[70] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

had  heard  the  Bruxellois  called  volatile  and 
pleasure  loving,  and  she  knew  that  Antwerp 
loved  masks  and  pageants ;  but  this  callous  levity 
was  beyond  belief.  She  walked  on  in  high  scorn 
for  a  city  to  which  her  brother  had  so  gladly 
offered  his  life. 

Twenty  yards'  progress  showed  her  that  the 
people  walked  silently  or  spoke  in  hushed  tones ; 
that  their  eyes  were  downcast ;  that  if  they  passed 
a  German  they  swerved  lest  they  touch  a  sleeve. 
The  laughter,  the  chatter,  all  came  from  German 
soldiers.  The  distant  general  effect  of  a  well- 
dressed  crowd  came  from  trim  grey  overcoats, 
with  sharply  contrasting  black  or  mauve  or  ma- 
genta velvet  collars,  all  worn  by  German  officers, 
who  were  taller  than  the  Belgians  and  conspicu- 
ous. The  stores  emitted  their  bright  floods  of 
light;  but  Peggy  saw  no  one  enter.  The  street 
cars  were  crowded  with  soldiers,  and  she  heard 
afterward  that  soldiers  paid  no  fares.  She  un- 
derstood now — a  sham  brilliancy,  organized, 
commanded;  the  proud  city  must  make  festival 
on  its  great  avenue  to  cheer  its  conquerors. 

She  stopped  often,  pretending  to  look  in  at 
windows,  but  watching  the  people.  Parsing 
thus,  she  saw  a  rare  and  exquisite  face — that  of 
a  girl  about  her  own  age — a  chiselled  profile;  a 

[71] 


THE  "WHITE  HOESE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL, 

nose  slightly  aquiline;  fine  dark  hair,  brushed 
quaintly  down  from  a  middle  parting  and  cover- 
ing the  ears.  This  grandmother's  way  suited  the 
long  oval  face  as  none  else  would,  Peggy 
thought.  The  girl  was  in  dead  black  and  slender 
to  thinness,  but  extraordinarily  graceful  in  the 
little  gestures  she  made  as  she  talked.  She 
turned  her  head  and  Peggy  looked  into  what 
seemed  to  her  the  most  impressive  and  expressive 
eyes  she  had  ever  seen.  They  radiated  so  unique 
a  personality  that  Peggy  felt  almost  that 
they  carried  a  direct  message  intended  for  her. 
They  were  dark  and  melancholy  at  the  first 
glance,  but  the  girl's  lips  trembled  to  a  faint 
smile  and  the  eyes  seemed  suddenly  to  come 
alertly  alive. 

She  turned  away.  That  yivid  speaking  glance 
expressed  a  nation's  gratitude  to  the  United 
States,  of  course.  Peggy  felt  suddenly  ashamed, 
and  looked  down  at  the  Stars  and  Stripes  in  her 
lapel  in  silent  apology. 

She  looked  again  at  the  little  group.  She  saw 
an  elderly  granddame,  grey-haired,  haughty  of 
head,  and  dressed,  like  the  girl,  in  deep  mourning. 
And  these  two  were  talking  and  laughing  with  a 
tall  blond  German  officer.  Belgians  walking 
past  stared,  and  moved  aside  with  sombre  glances 

[72] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

and  lowered  brows.  An  elderly  gentlewoman  on 
the  arm  of  an  old  aristocrat  checked  him  directly 
in  front  of  Peggy,  and  the  couple  turned  their 
backs  in  a  direct  and  ostentatious  cut. 

Their  eyes  swept  over  Peggy  and  their  stony 
faces  instantly  softened.  Peggy  entered  the  store 
lest  they  should  speak.  She  could  not  silently 
accept  spoken  tribute.  She  made  her  purchases, 
learned  from  a  pale  and  lonely  girl  that  the  lights 
were  compulsory,  that  no  one  came  to  buy  ex- 
cept swaggering  German  officers,  and  that  they 
had  only  autumn  goods. 

Going  out  she  saw  that  a  man  was  watching 
her  intently  through  the  doorway;  a  tallish  man 
in  a  long,  sumptuous  fur  coat,  the  collar  of  which 
was  turned  up  so  that  only  his  nose  and  eyes  were 
visible.  The  eyes — but  she  was  used  to  strained 
eyes  now;  only  these  told  her  plainly  that  he 
meant  to  speak  to  her.  She  turned  quickly,  but 
instantly  he  was  at  her  side. 

"Pardon  me,"  he  began.  He  paused  while 
two  German  officers  passed. 

Peggy  was  &  little  anxious.  The  man  was 
American  unmistakably;  why  should  he  have 
eyes  like  the  Belgians,  and  why  should  his  voice 
sound  so  weary,  and  why  should  he  approach 
her  in  this  guarded,  suspicious  way? 

[73] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"I'll  leave  you  at  the  next  corner,"  he  went 
on;  "but  please  let  me  go  that  far.  I  am  a 
stranger  in  Antwerp.  I  want  the  name  and  ad- 
dress of  some  Belgian,  some  important  Belgian 
- — a  true  Belgian.  I  must  see  him  to-night." 

Peggy  paused  and  looked  back. 

"'The  consulate  is  there,"  she  said,  nodding 
across  the  street.  "I  saw  the  coat  of  arms." 

The  girl  with  the  wonderful  eyes  and  the  old 
lady  were  close  behind,  and  the  girl  came  straight 
to  her,  holding  out  a  hand.  Her  smile  thrilled 
the  astonished  and  alarmed  Peggy. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Fargo!"  she  said  in  French,  in 
a  voice  that  seemed  to  have  the  quality  of  love 
in  it ;  "we  have  been  searching  for  you.  We  have 
found  you  and  you  must  come  straight  home 
with  us." 

Dumfounded,  Peggy  was  conscious  that  the 
elder  lady  had  greeted  the  stranger  as  Monsieur 
Fargo  and  was  extending  the  same  warm  invi- 
tation. 

"Prenez  garde!"  said  the  girl  in  a  low  voice, 
glancing  into  the  roadway;  and  then  she  turned 
and  welcomed  Monsieur  Fargo  as  an  old  friend. 

The  elderly  lady  now  shook  Peggy's  hand  and 
told  her  that  marriage  had  not  changed  her  a 
bit. 

[74] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"Pschuttr  murmured  the  girl;  and  Peggy 
heard  a  voice  from  the  curb  and  saw  an  automo- 
bile drawn  up  and  that  a  young  German  officer 
had  sprung  out. 

"My  dear  Yvonne,"  he  said  in  German  to  the 
girl;  "what  luck!  What  are  you  doing  here 
among  this  rabble?" 

He  bent  over  and  kissed  the  elder  lady's  gloved 
hand. 

"My  old  friends,  Monsieur  and  Madame  Far- 
go," said  the  girl — "Leutnant  von  Schmiedell. 
Americans,  as  you  see." 

"How  jolly!"  said  the  young  officer  gaily  in 
English  as  he  shook  hands  with  the  two.  "Now 
you  shall  all  come  and  dine  with  me  at  the  hotel." 

"Not  I,  Otto,"  the  elder  lady  promptly  de- 
clined ;  "your  dinners  are  too  bad."  She  glanced 
at  the  girl,  who  smiled  and  nodded.  "If  you 
wish,  Yvonne,  I  will  trust  you  to  Madame 
Fargo." 

"I  should  like  it,"  said  the  girl  softly;  and 
her  eyes  rested  for  an  instant  on  the  young  offi- 
cer, who  beamed  delight. 

"Very  well.  You  shall  send  me  home,  Otto." 
She  moved  toward  the  car. 

"Yes,  yes,  madame;  that's  it."  The  young 
[75] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

officer  helped  her  in  and  tucked  a  fur  robe  about 
her. 

"I  shall  see  you  soon,  Madame  Fargo,"  she 
called  out.  "You  and  your  husband  are  to  come 
with  Yvonne  and  stay  with  us.  How  glad  we 
shall  be!" 

She  beckoned  imperiously  to  Peggy,  who  went 
to  her,  dazed. 

"These  tyrant  Germans  make  us  keep  early 
hours,"  she  said,  smiling  at  the  young  officer, 
who  laughed  cheerily.  "Remember,  you  must 
bring  Yvonne  back  by  half -past  eight  o'clock." 

Did  she,  too,  breathe  Prenez  garde!  Peggy 
thought  so,  and  that  she  had  been  summoned 
to  hear  that. 

Madame  waved  and  kissed  her  hand  to  Peggy ; 
then  the  German  soldier  chauffeur  drove  off. 
Peggy  turned ;  the  young  officer  led  the  way  with 
the  girl;  the  American  and  Peggy  dropped  be- 
hind. 

"Charming  people,"  he  said  offhandedly;  then 
he  bent  and  whispered:  "Don't  be  alarmed.  I 
can  fix  it  up — two  ways.  What  if  I  disappear 
at  the  next  corner?" 

"Aren't  they  delightful?"  she  answered;  then, 
lower:  "Impossible!  If  you  go  I  am  investi- 
gated. I  am  English,  with  a  false  passport." 

[76] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

She  felt  his  start  as  their  arms  touched  in  the 
crowd.  He  slipped  his  hand  through  her  arm 
and  held  her  firmly. 

"French  aviation  corps,"  he  murmured,  bend- 
ing over;  "bombed  aerodrome  beyond  Brussels 
last  night  and  had  to  come  down  afterward." 

Peggy  quivered.    He  held  her  closer. 

"Yes,"  he  said;  "fine  old  avenue  and  people 
good  sports."  Then:  "I'm  very  sorry.  I  don't 
understand  what's  happened." 

"Nor  I." 

"But  it'll  be  all  right.  Remember,  when  they 
question  you,  stick  to  the  cold  truth." 

"You  must  not  give  yourself  up." 

"Of  course  I  can,  and  must.  I  shall  be  only  a 
prisoner  of  war." 

"With  that  coat  on — is  that  true?" 

He  forced  a  laugh  as  they  passed  a  knot  of 
German  officers,  and  Peggy  joined  in  it  and 
glanced  about  as  though  this  was  a  casual  stroll. 

"I  have  the  flying  uniform  underneath,"  he 
said. 

"Your  clothes  are  waiting — in  your  room." 

"I  have  not  shaved  since  yesterday." 

"Your  razor  is  on  the  dressing-table." 

"Foolhardy — I  have  no  papers." 

"I  have  your  passport." 
[77] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"This  is  no  time  for  joking,"  he  said,  with  the 
testy  anger  of  a  man  almost  done  up. 

"Nor  for  explanations,"  she  answered.  "My 
way  is  the  only  way." 

"But  this  girl — who  is  she?" 

"I  don't  know — a  German  spy,  I  think;  but 
you  and  I  can  only  carry  on.  You  must  do  it." 

"I  will  carry  on,"  he  answered. 

"Right!"  said  Peggy  cheerfully.  They  were 
turning  the  corner  near  by  the  hotel  and  fewer 
people  were  about.  "I  am  sorry,"  she  said 
gravely,  "that  this  was  forced  on  me.  I  think — 
I  hope  that  I  should  have  done  the  same  if  I 
had  had  a  chance  to  choose.  I  owe  a  debt  to  your 
flag — and  to  you.  You  have  fought  for  France 
and  England.  .  .  .  Come,  Monty!"  She  lifted 
her  voice. 

The  other  couple  waited.  The  four  went  to- 
gether into  the  hotel. 


[78] 


IV 


The  entrance  lounge  of  the  hotel  was  so  nar- 
row as  to  be  hardly  more  than  a  hall.  On  each 
side  were  little  tables  and  at  each  of  these  two  or 
three  German  officers  were  seated,  chatting,  sip- 
ping beer,  waiting  for  dinner.  A  lifting  of  heads ; 
a  few  seconds  of  inquisitive  silence ;  fifty  pairs  of 
focused  eyes.  Peggy,  confronting  all  this  with 
outward  calm,  was  subconsciously  proud  of  the 
airman.  He  was  probably  starving  and  certainly 
dead  weary ;  yet  the  arm  on  which  her  hand  still 
lingered  was  firm  and  his  tired  eyes  swept  over 
the  hall  with  composure. 

"Come,  Monty!"  she  said  in  English.  "You 
must  hurry."  She  turned  with  him  to  the  desk. 

"Monsieur  Fargo  is  found,"  she  said  to  the 
clerk.  "The  key,  please." 

It  was  not  on  its  hook  and  there  was  an  in- 
stant's delay.  Peggy  was  mad  with  impatience, 
for  the  place  was  steam-heated,  and  the  airman's 
sumptuous  turned-up  fur  collar  seemed  to  shout 
that  it  half  hid  its  wearer's  face  for  special 
reasons. 

[79] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

She  glanced  about  and  saw  that  the  laughing, 
mercurial  young  cosmopolite,  this  Leutnant  von 
Schmiedell,  was  extraordinarily  popular,  and 
that  the  Belgian  girl  had  several  acquaintances 
among  the  officers.  Some  of  these  patted  the  lieu- 
tenant almost  affectionately  and  addressed  the 
girl  with  marked  deference.  Others  passed,  to 
catch  her  eye,  and  bent  at  the  middle,  recovering 
as  though  a  hinged  ramrod  had  been  sharply 
straightened.  With  an  eye  trained  to  class  dis- 
tinctions, Peggy  saw  that  only  those  of  the  high- 
est caste  were  intimate  with  the  young  lieutenant, 
and  she  inferred  that  the  girl  was  a  member  of 
an  important  Belgian  family.  She  turned  as 
the  key  was  fourd. 

"Pack  everything,  Monty,"  she  ordered,  with 
emphasis,  "everything  in  both  rooms."  She 
handed  him  her  purse.  "Lock  the  suitcase.  The 
key  is  in  the  purse.  Bring  everything  down. 
Then  we  can  go  straight  off  with  mademoiselle." 

The  airman  nodded.  Peggy  turned  to  the 
clerk,  an  elderly  Belgian. 

"Monsieur  Fargo  has  had  no  proper  lunch- 
eon," she  said.  "Can  you  send  up  some  bouillon 
and  a  biscuit?  He  can  eat  as  he  changes." 

"But  yes,  madame.  We  are  very  short- 
handed;  but  for  an  American  we  do  everything." 

[80] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

The  hall  porter,  overhearing,  nodded,  and  the 
two  looked  at  her  from  the  national  grateful 
eyes. 

"God!"  muttered  the  airman.  "You  think  of 
everything." 

"Carry  on,"  she  murmured,  "and  trust  the  hall 
porter  if  the  clothes  don't  fit." 

He  turned,  and  was  in  the  elevator  before  the 
young  lieutenant  came  up,  breathless. 

"I  could  not  get  him  a  cocktail — worse  luck!" 
he  cried.  "But  a  gin  and  bitters — yes.  Where 
is  he?" 

Peggy  shook  her  head. 

"No  time,"  she  said,  smiling.  "He  will  be 
late  as  it  is.  I  said  he  must  shave.  You  must  not 
wait  dinner  for  him." 

She  walked  over  with  the  officer  to  the  girl. 
Oberst  von  und  zu  Borgheim  was  presented  to 
her,  and  his  iron  cross  hung  like  a  pendulum,  he 
bent  over  so  far. 

Oberleutnant  von  Bahrheit  lost  his  monocle  as 
he  bowed.  Peggy  heard  cheerful,  unabashed 
compliments  on  the  kindness  of  her  supposed 
nation  to  these  unhappy  Belgians. 

"You  soften  the  hard  fortune  of  war,"  said  the 
general,  stroking  a  bristly  black  moustache. 

"You  do  a  generous  work,"  announced  Ober- 
[81] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

leutnant  von  Bahrheit.  "We  are  grateful.  The 
Belgians  are  grateful.  Some  day,  when  all  is 
over,  the  Belgians  will  understand  us  Germans 
and  be  grateful  to  us  too.  Is  it  not  so,  Made- 
moiselle Duberges?" 

Peggy  was  relieved  that,  at  least,  she  now  knew 
the  name  of  this  girl. 

"It  is  to  be  hoped  so,  Herr  Oberleutnant," 
answered  mademoiselle,  nodding  and  darting  a 
glance  from  her  wonderful  melancholy  eyes. 

"We  Germans,  Frau  Fargo,"  the  general  said, 
"are  misunderstood  in  many  places — in  your 
country,  too,  by  some.  But  you  will  see  our  or- 
ganization, and  how  we  bring  order  and— 

But  their  host  came  hustling.  He  had  secured 
a  table.  It  would  be  a  bad  dinner.  There  were 
no  flowers.  There  were  not  half  enough  waiters. 
But  it  would  be  awfully  jolly,  nevertheless. 
They  must  come  now.  Monsieur  Fargo  would 
excuse  their  not  waiting. 

A  hundred  German  officers  half  rose  and  bent 
as  they  entered  the  dining-room,  and  the  young 
lieutenant  bowed  right,  left  and  center  before 
he  led  the  way  to  the  one  empty,  distant  table. 
Peggy  had  only  one  conscious  thought  as  she 
took  that  enfiladed  walk  down  the  room.  Would 
Geoffrey's  clothes  fit?  A  man,  dead-tired,  pick- 

[82] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

ing  his  way  among  tables  where  sat  a  hundred 
watching  enemies!  What  if  the  sleeves  should 
be  two  inches  too  short  or  too  long? 

The  lieutenant  pulled  out  her  chair  for  her 
and  she  sat  facing  the  room  and  the  entrance. 
She  was  startled — the  door  seemed  so  far  away; 
even  an  airman,  jaded,  half  starved,  might  lose 
his  nerve  and  bolt.  She  willed  to  forget  him, 
and  not  to  think  back  an  hour  or  forward  a  min- 
ute. Her  social  training  steeled  her ;  helped  her 
to  outward  ease;  helped  her  to  concentrate  and 
listen.  She  quickly  learned  that  Leutnant  von 
Schmiedell's  grandfather  had  been  a  secretary 
in  the  German  Legation  at  Washington  and  had 
married  an  American  woman;  that  his  father, 
an  attache  at  London,  had  married  an  English- 
woman; that  he  had  been  at  a  public  school  in 
England  and  had  visited  relatives  in  Massachu- 
setts. So  his  cosmopolitanism  was  accounted 
for.  If  only  the  girl  would  talk  as  freely  about 
herself!  But  mademoiselle  was  content  to  smile 
and  listen,  and  gave  no  clues. 

Peggy  topped  the  bits  of  American  slang  of 
which  the  lieutenant  was  boyishly  proud,  model- 
ling her  language  on  that  of  Humber  Honest. 
She  explained  in  French  to  mademoiselle  what 
it  meant  to  "Put  it  over,"  and  how  "I  should 

[83] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AXD  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

worry!"  was  to  be  understood.  Laughter  rang 
at  that  table,  but  nowhere  else  in  the  room;  and 
many  Germans  watched,  and  some  smiled  some- 
times. The  lieutenant  made  no  secret  of  the 
pleasure  he  felt  at  the  sensation  his  impromptu 
dinner  was  creating.  Impromptu?  The  trap 
had  been  skilfully  hidden,  but  Peggy  began  to 
feel  its  pinch  as  it  closed. 

The  lieutenant  chided  Mademoiselle  Duberges 
for  having  gone  to  the  Avenue  de  Keyser  at  the 
hour  of  the  common  people.  He  was  nettled; 
slightly  arrogant.  She  should  not  expose  herself 
to  such  contamination. 

"But  I  told  you,"  said  Mademoiselle  Du- 
berges, "I  was  looking  for  my  friends." 

Her  eyes  lingered  on  Peggy's  with  a  tender- 
ness so  profound  that  Peggy  felt  a  warm,  pleas- 
ant glow.  But  the  eyes  swept  on,  and  the  young 
lieutenant  held  his  spoon  in  midair,  as  he  took  a 
deep  breath  and  sat  for  an  instant  as  one  under 
a  spell.  Which  was  this  amazing  actress  deceiv- 
ing? Peggy  asked  herself.  The  answer  was  ob- 
vious. Those  wonderful  smiles  were  sincere  when 
they  flashed  on  the  young  officer. 

When  he  asked,  with  a  little  constraint,  how 
Mademoiselle  Duberges  had  known  of  the  ar- 
rival of  her  friends,  Peggy  saw  reproach  in  the 

[84] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

expressive  eyes  and  offended  dignity  in  the  up- 
turned oval  chin. 

"You  wrote  to  me,  of  course,  Madame  Fargo 
—didn't  you?" 

"If  I  had,"  Peggy  answered,  "would  you  have 
received  the  letter?" 

A  glance  of  triumph,  a  head  held  high,  and, 
exclusion  of  the  offending  lieutenant  from  the 
conversation;  this  tiny  quarrel  seemed  real  to 
Peggy.  The  girl  was  so  black  a  traitress  to  her 
people  that  she  resented  a  charge  of  breaking  a 
cruel  German  regulation  that  no  Belgian  should 
write  a  letter  I 

But  the  conversation  from  which  the  lieutenant 
was  excluded  required  all  Peggy's  attention.  A 
gush  of  enthusiastic  words  about  that  never-to- 
be-forgotten  week  in  the  Chateau  of  the  Com- 
tesse  de  Beaufort,  near  Blois — "When  a  friend- 
ship so  charming  to  me,  and  I  hope  to  you,  dear 
Madame  Fargo,  was  so  deeply  founded" — and 
as  Peggy  knew  no  such  comtesse  and  had  never 
been  near  Blois,  her  invention  was  taxed  to  the 
utmost.  The  memories  she  invented  appeared  to 
delight  the  Belgian  girl,  who  recalled,  in  her 
turn,  pleasant  happenings  that  had  never  hap- 
pened. 

Peggy,  not  knowing  the  game,  played  it,  ner- 
[85] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

ertheless;  and  played  it  well.  Mademoiselle 
laughed,  and  showed  a  relenting  spirit  toward  the 
officer.  She  turned  to  him. 

"Clothilde,  my  maid,  was  with  me  at  the  cha- 
teau," she  explained  with  condescension;  "and 
so  she  knew  Mademoiselle.  She  saw  her  go  into 
the  hotel  to-day.  She  came  home  and  told  me. 
I  rush  to  find  a  Monsieur  and  Madame  Fargo 
have  arrived.  I  describe  her,  beautiful,  chic,  with 
the  air  of  distinction.  Yes;  it  is  she — my  friend, 
who  is  married.  She  has  gone  out.  So  I  search; 
and  I  find." 

The  lieutenant,  humble,  pleaded  for  forgive- 
ness, and  the  couple  were  absorbed  in  one  an- 
other for  half  a  minute.  Peggy  had  time  to 
think.  These  two — this  bubbling  young  officer 
and  this  girl  in  black — were  in  love  with  each 
other.  He  made  no  secret  of  it.  His  every  glance 
told  it.  The  inflection  of  his  voice  said  it.  And 
the  girl — well,  her  exquisite  simplicity  was  the 
product  of  an  inherited  and  a  cultivated  artifice, 
and  so  not  easy  to  read;  but  Peggy  read.  And 
this  young  gentlewoman,  a  fine  flower  of  Bel- 
gium's highest  culture,  had  become  an  open  rene- 
gade and  a  self-admitted  traitress  to  her  nation 
and  her  people  through  love  for  this  German. 
She  had  not  been  content  passively  to  side  with 

[86] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

her  country's  oppressors.  She  had  sunk  to  es- 
pionage for  them. 

Peggy  was  sure  now  that  she  had  been  sought 
and  captured  by  intention.  How  perfectly  it 
had  been  managed!  How  beautifully  done! 
There  was  a  plain  reason  for  such  extreme  care. 
An  ''mportant  American  woman  justly  entitled 
to  her  country's  protection,  if  treated  as  Peggy 
had  been,  had  nothing  to  complain  of ;  she  would 
not  even  know  she  had  been  suspected.  She 
would  have  denied  mademoiselle's  acquaintance; 
have  told  her  she  had  made  a  mistake ;  would,  no 
doubt,  have  been  carefully  cultivated  by  these 
two  distinguished-looking  Belgian  women  in 
deep  mourning;  and  within  an  hour  would  have 
disclosed  any  secrets  she  might  have  to  these  rep- 
resentatives of  a  distressed  and  broken  people. 
An  effective  trap ;  Peggy  wasted  no  regrets  for 
having  walked  into  it.  She  had  had  no  choice. 
It  would  be  sprung  as  neatly,  as  quickly,  as  it 
had  been  set.  The  end  would  come  quickly  and 
courteously  after  dinner. 

The  airman  and  herself  would  be  asked  to 
enter  an  auto  that  they  might  go  to  the  home 
of  this  affectionate  and  pressing  hostess.  But 
this  hostess  would  not  get  into  the  car;  and 
presently  they  would  find  themselves  at  head- 

[87] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

quarters.  And,  then,  what?  Prison  for  her — 
no  more  Peggy  thought.  .  .  .But  for  him?  She 
did  not  know  whether  a  fur  coat  or  a  civilian  suit 
changed  a  prisoner  of  war  into  a  spy. 

She  attacked  her  fish  with  real  hunger.  She 
was  safe  for  an  hour.  Dinner  was  assured  for 
that  day;  the  last  decent  meal,  perhaps,  for 
months!  Waiters  were  so  few  and  service  so 
slow  that  half  an  hour  had  elapsed.  Peggy 
glanced  so  often  toward  the  distant  door  that  the 
lieutenant  chuckled. 

"Herr  Fargo,"  he  said  in  German — all  lan- 
guages seemed  the  same  to  him — "is  going  to 
swagger.  If  he  comes  in  evening  clothes  he  will 
blind  us.  A  starched  shirt " 

"He  brought  none,"  Peggy  laughed;  "but  his 

bristly  chin "  She  stopped  short,  for  the 

airman  had  entered. 

Her  lips  parted  and  her  eyes  widened  as  she 
saw  him  quietly  bow  right  and  left,  while  he 
calmly  looked  about  the  room.  She  watched 
his  easy,  deliberate  progress  with  an  exultant 
pride.  Geoffrey  himself  could  hardly  do  it  bet- 
ter. Geoffrey  would  not  have  bowed ;  it  was  not 
the  English  custom.  Geoff  would  have  looked 
and  acted  as  though  there  was  no  one  else  in  the 
room.  It  was  the  English  way.  This  American 

[88] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

might  not  hope  to  approach  the  splendid  Eng- 
lish nonchalance;  but  he  had  a  fine,  simple  dig- 
nity. As  he  came  near  she  had  a  confused  vision 
of  eyes  following  him. 

The  uplifted  faces  of  the  German  officers 
formed  a  composite  picture  for  her  and  she  was 
surprised  at  the  complete  absence  of  antagonism. 
When  Geoffrey  had  walked  like  that,  down  a 
foreign  dining-room,  she  had  been  proud  that 
foreigners  were  jealous  and  showed  it.  She  was 
startled  at  the  thought  that  this  American's  way 
might  be  better  after  all — but  only  among  Ger- 
man officers. 

As  he  came  near  she  frankly  watched  his  face, 
and  her  lips  parted  in  a  smile  as  conviction  came 
that  it  matched  his  bearing.  He  saw  and  an- 
swered so  gaily,  so  spontaneously,  that  Peggy 
thrilled  to  it,  for  it  seemed  to  say  that  her  mood 
was  his ;  that  this  hour  was  theirs,  anyhow — this 
dinner  and  this  last  chance  to  laugh.  He  paused 
by  the  lieutenant's  side  and  apologized  for  his 
tardiness;  and  his  eyes  were  bent  down  on  her 
over  the  lieutenant's  shoulder  and  looked  straight 
into  hers.  They  were  deep  and  calm  and  steady, 
with  the  vision  in  them  that  the  world  has  since 
come  to  know  as  that  of  the  man  who  looks  out 
at  peril  from  above  the  clouds.  Peggy  felt  as 

[89] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

one  fighting  a  forlorn  hope  to  whom  strong  help 
unexpectedly  comes. 

"Did  you  find  everything,  Monty?"  she  asked, 
with  a  laugh  so  merry-hearted  that  the  lieutenant 
and  the  girl  looked  at  each  other  and  smiled. 

"Of  course.   You  packed." 

He  took  his  seat  and  stretched  out  a  hand  for 
the  bread  beside  his  plate.  Peggy  thought  the 
hand  was  trembling  with  eagerness,  and  she  saw 
that  Geoffrey's  sleeve  was  a  little  too  long.  She 
insisted  that  he  should  begin  at  the  beginning. 
She  was  sure  the  Herr  Leutnant  would  not  mind 
waiting. 

"Not  I!"  the  latter  exclaimed  jovially.  "I 
congratulate  Herr  Fargo!  Don't  you,  Yvonne?" 

The  Belgian  girl  nodded  and  glanced  across 
at  Peggy. 

"There  are  so  many  things  to  congratulate  me 
about,"  the  airman  said.  "Which  one?" 

"There  is  only  one,"  Mademoiselle  Duberges 
corrected  softly.  "We  saw  madame's  eyes  as 
you  came  in — and  her  smile — and  how  she 
watched  you " 

"She  always  looks  like  that  when  I  am  late 
for  dinner.  Don't  you,  Peggy?"  Mischief 
gleamed  in  his  blue-grey  eyes  as  they  twinkled 
on  her. 

[90] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

Yes;  he  was  genuinely  carefree.  She  felt  a 
high  elation;  and  his  eyes  could  fit  the  passport 
description.  It  did  not  matter,  of  course.  They 
would  never  have  a  chance  to  use  it.  Still,  how 
absurd  that  passport  descriptions  fitted  every- 
body. 

"I've  never  known  you  to  be  late,  Monty." 

"But  of  course  not,"  the  lieutenant  exclaimed 
— "with  such  a  welcome  to  come  home  to!" 

He  uttered  a  little  exclamation  of  satisfaction 
as  he  glanced  down  the  room,  and  Peggy  saw 
the  airman's  lips  move  as  though  something  pleas- 
ant passed  between  them.  A  waiter  was  coming, 
bearing  a  tiny  cradle  with  tender  care.  She  was 
glad  the  airman  was  to  have  good  wine.  Only 
good,  red,  still  wine  would  be  brought  like  that, 
in  a  basket  lying  down  lest  the  crust  be  broken. 
It  was  just  what  an  exhausted  man  needed. 

"I  presume  to  guess,"  said  mademoiselle  with 
a  demure  look,  "that  Monsieur  Fargo  has  not 
had  many  chances  of  being  late." 

"I  refuse,"  laughed  Peggy,  "to  admit  that 
there  is  any  rice  in  our  luggage." 

The  dust-covered  bottle  was  laid  gently  on 
the  table. 

"Ah,"  Mademoiselle  Duberges  mocked  slyly, 
"but  the  careful  search  that  was  made — and  you, 

[91] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIBL 

dear  Madame  Fargo,  pecking  about  like  a  radi- 
ant, hungry  pigeon  to  find  every  single  grain  of 
rice!" 

"It's  no  use  our  pretending,  Monty.  Every- 
body finds  us  out,"  Peggy  said.  "The  fish  for 
monsieur,  waiter — and  some  more  bread.  Par- 
don, Herr  Leutnant." 

"Chere  madame,  but  you  are  the  perfect  wife! 
Do  look  after  him." 

The  lieutenant  was  busy  with  a  corkscrew, 
and  showed  the  pride  of  expert  connoisseurship 
often  so  naively  displayed  by  those  too  young  to 
have  formed  accurate  palates. 

Peggy  watched  the  airman  eat  with  glowing 
satisfaction.  She  was  passionately  eager  that  he 
should  have  enough;  that  he  should  enjoy  that 
brief  hour.  His  vitality  came  back  bounding, 
like  a  flood- tide  in  a  narrowing  gulf.  Each  time 
he  looked  up  she  seemed  to  see  one  line  the  fewer 
about  his  eyes;  that  the  eyes  themselves  were 
brighter;  that  the  lips  were  less  pallid.  As  he 
bent  over  his  plate  she  saw  that  his  fine  dark  hair 
was  a  little  too  long  and  that  his  scalp  was  white 
in  the  perfect  parting.  He  had  made  that  part- 
ing with  her  brush,  of  course ;  for  she  had  brought 
only  one.  His  long  head  and  his  long  fine  face 
were  as  unlike  Geoffrey's  and  Jack's  as  could  be; 

[92] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

and  yet  that  description  on  the  passport — nose, 
prominent;  chin,  square.    Of  course  it  fitted. 

"The  Belgians,"  the  lieutenant  cried,  "have 
the  best  Burgundies  in  the  world.  I  sent  to  my 
room  for  this."  He  glanced  about  for  joyous 
sympathy.  "It  is  from  a  cellar  in  Louvain,"  he 
explained.  "I  managed  to  get  a  dozen." 

Peggy's  eyes  met  those  of  the  airman,  and  the 
glance  lingered  perceptibly.  She  seemed  to  be 
looking  into  cool,  steel-blue  depths,  made  trans- 
parent as  though  by  intention  for  her;  and  the 
message  was  that  she  would  not  be  the  only  one 
who  should  refuse  to  drink  that  wine. 

Peggy  looked  across  the  table.  Mademoiselle 
Duberges  was  smiling  at  the  lieutenant's  en- 
thusiasm over  this  shameless  loot  from  the  hap- 
less city.  Peggy  now  believed  the  worst  that 
could  be  believed  about  this  girl  who  looked  like 
a  saint  and  smiled  like  an  angel. 

"We'll  follow  the  English  custom,"  said  the 
lieutenant  after  he  had  poured  a  little  into  his 
glass.  "We'll  pass  it  round  as  the  sun  goes." 
He  took  up  the  basket  in  both  hands  and  laid  it 
softly  before  Peggy.  "The  German  custom," 
he  cried — "the  world  will  call  it  that — after  the 
war.  For  the  German  drumbeat — not  the  Eng- 
lish— will  roll  round  the  world  with  the  sun." 

[93] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"The  English  custom?"  Peggy  said,  half 
choking.  "I  do  not  understand.  And  I  do  not 
touch  wine." 

"Oh,  bother!"  said  the  lieutenant  in  English, 
with  a  good-humored  smile.  "I  had  forgotten 
what  a  nation  of  Puritans  you  Americans 
are.  .  .  .  But  you,  Mr.  Fargo." 

"A  glass  of  water,  Herr  Leutnant,"  he  said, 
"would  taste  mighty  good  to  me  at  this  minute." 

"Water!    At  my  table?" 

The  lieutenant  shrugged  resignedly  and  gave 
the  order.  He  showed  the  annoyance  the  young 
host  always  feels  when  he  has  provided  an  un- 
appreciated treasure. 

"Monsieur  and  Madame  Fargo,"  said  Made- 
moiselle Duberges,  "have  their  customs.  Why 
should  they  change,  Otto?  One  glass  for  me, 
please."  Her  wonderful  smile  banished  the 
cloud. 

"Pardon!"  he  said,  beaming  on  the  offending 
Americans.  He  half  rose  and,  with  tender  so- 
licitude, filled  the  glass  of  the  Belgian  girl,  and 
then  his  own.  "It  is  Romance,"  he  said,  holding 
his  glass  to  his  nose  and  inhaling  the  bouquet. 
"There  are  only  four  acres  in  the  vineyard. 
Who  would  have  thought  of  finding  it  in  the  cel- 

[94] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

lar  of  a  Belgian  burgher?  It  is  of  the  great 
vintage  of  1865.  .  .  .  And  now — a  toast " 

"But,  Otto,  Monsieur  and  Madame  Fargo  are 
neutrals,  and  I — I  am  Belgian;  and— 

"But  of  course!"  the  young  man  cried.  "How 
stupid  of  me!  We  will  each  drink  our  own " 

He  held  out  his  glass.  The  airman  and  Peggy 
and  Mademoiselle  Duberges  did  the  same.  Two 
tumblers  of  water  clinked  against  two  glasses 
of  wine  and  four  people  sipped.  The  Belgian 
girl  turned  her  great  eyes  on  Peggy  and  they 
seemed  to  plead  for  forgiveness. 

"Deutschland  uber  Alles?"  Peggy  wondered. 
Had  the  girl  murmured  those  words  before  she 
touched  the  glass  to  her  lips!  Mistress  of  tact, 
exquisite  in  courtesy,  flowerlike,  had  love  so  con- 
quered   But  what  mattered  her  thought? 

She  had  drunk  the  blood  of  Louvain! 

There  was  a  momentary  silence ;  a  slight  shad- 
ow stole  over  the  table;  Peggy  broke  into  viva- 
cious chatter  and  soon  again  had  complete  com- 
mand of  them  all.  She  rallied  all  her  powers, 
fenced  with  the  lieutenant,  chaffed  him — strafed 
him,  as  he  said,  with  a  laugh — received  graceful 
co-operation  from  the  supple  finesse  of  Made- 
moiselle Duberges,  and  rested  like  a  rock  on  the 
imperturbable  airman.  His  answering  glance 

[95] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

always  gave  her  support  every  time  she  looked. 

He  never  failed  in  his  replies  to  embarrassing 
questions.  He  was  deliberate  of  speech,  and  so 
never  appeared  to  hesitate.  These  questions 
from  the  lieutenant  seemed  perfectly  casual 
and  natural  to  Peggy.  He  showed  that  he  liked 
them  both;  that  their  presence  was  a  welcome 
relief  from  monotony;  and  that  he  considered 
his  dinner  a  brilliant  success.  Peggy  believed 
now  that  he  regarded  the  airman  and  herself  as 
all  they  claimed  to  be.  The  Belgian  girl  would 
tell  him  after  dinner  that  this  American  woman 
had  accepted,  without  demur  or  explanation,  an 
invented  previous  friendship;  then  the  bomb 
would  fall.  The  explosion  would  be  much  more 
severe  because  of  this  dinner.  German  arrogance 
would  be  ruffled.  German  spite  would  be  vin- 
dictive. The  airman  would  be  shot.  It  was  no 
far-fetched  fear. 

She  stopped  the  waiter  who  was  removing  the 
airman's  plate. 

"Some  more  beef,  please,  for  monsieur,"  she 
ordered.  If  this  should  prove  his  last  dinner  he 
should  have  enough;  and  he  should  remember 
it  as  cheerful. 

"As  long  as  he  likes,  Madame  Fargo."  Bui 
the  lieutenant  glanced  secretly  at  his  watch, 

[96] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

Even  he  could  not  protect  a  Belgian  who  dared 
to  be  on  the  street  after  the  prescribed  hour.  He 
ordered  coffee  to  be  served  there.  "I  will  send 
you  all  home  in  my  auto,"  he  said.  "Plenty  of 
time." 

"You  think  of  everything,  Otto,"  murmured 
the  girl. 

"Only  of  you!"  he  answered  in  a  low  voice. 

"Monsieur  is  of  the  Commission,  of  course?" 
he  asked,  turning  to  Peggy. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  answered.  "We  are  taking  four 
little  girls  from  a  convent  to  their  English 
mothers." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Fargo,"  he  laughed;  "a  ready-made 
family!" 

"Mrs.  Fargo,"  said  the  airman,  smiling, 
"mothers  everybody." 

"And  am  I  included,  oh,  brilliant  matron  of 
all  the  world?"  cried  the  lieutenant  in  laughing 
appeal. 

"Do  keep  him  in  order!"  pleaded  Mademoi- 
selle Duberges  demurely.  "Insist  that  he  comes 
to  lunch  with  us  at  Brussels." 

Peggy  started  visibly.  The  lieutenant  stared, 
surprised. 

"But,  of  course,  I  am  going  with  them,"  the 
girl  continued.  "Shall  I  trust  my  dear  American 

[97] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  BED-HAIRED  GIRL 

friends  all  alone  to  your  Landwehr  -sentinels  and 
dunderheaded  pickets?" 

Peggy  was  now  sure  that  her  suitcase  had  been 
searched  and  the  letters  to  the  Mother  Superior 
read.  And  she  believed  she  knew  why. 

"We  shall  drive  all  the  way,"  mademoiselle 
continued.  "That  is  your  fault.  You  will  not  let 
a  poor  Belgian  or  American  use  an  auto."  She 
tossed  back  her  head  in  resentment,  which  would 
have  been  very  pretty  if  it  had  been  about  a 
trifle. 

"You  might  be  away  several  days,"  the  lieu- 
tenant grumbled. 

"It  is  certainly  not  an  affair  of  a  day,"  was 
her  answer.  She  added  with  a  coaxing  appeal: 
"You  will  come  to  us  at  Brussels,  won't  you?" 

"Of  course  he  will!"  the  airman  said  heartily. 

"Oh,  please  come!"  Peggy  cried,  as  though  it 
was  her  dearest  wish. 

"Ah,  if  you  ask!"  said  the  lieutenant. 

"I  do  not  ask;  I  insist,  Herr  Leutnant." 

"Rather  jolly!  I  should  like  it,"  he  said,  re- 
stored  to  good  humor.  "Thanks  awfully — that 
is,  of  course,  if  you  are  not  staying  with  friends  ?" 

"No,  Otto;  at  the  hotel — you  know — on  the 
Avenue  Louise." 

[98] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"Yes,  yes;  a  jolly  place.  Expect  me  at  one, 
Sunday.  I'll  motor  over.  What  convent  is  it?" 

The  girl  lifted  her  eyes  to  Peggy's,  but  Peggy 
did  not  seem  to  see  the  glance.  After  a  slight 
pause  Mademoiselle  Duberges  named  the  con- 
vent. This  was  a  confession  that  the  suitcase  had 
been  searched. 

"Going  to  Louvain?"  the  lieutenant  asked. 

"Perhaps,"  said  the  airman;  "if  there's  time." 

The  lieutenant  sat  up  very  straight. 

"If  you  do,"  he  said,  "you  will  see  how  Ger- 
many was  forced  to  teach  war  lessons  to  civilians 
who  shot  our  brave  soldiers  in  the  back.  The 
world  criticizes.  Perhaps  you  do.  But  we  Ger- 
mans do  our  duty.  And  in  peace  days — when 
the  world  is  less  prejudiced — we  shall  be  under- 
stood. Isn't  that  your  view,  Mr.  Fargo?" 

The  airman  nodded. 

"When  the  sun  goes  round  a  German  world," 
he  said,  "and  the  wine  goes  round  the  German 
way " 

"Aha!  Precisely!"  The  lieutenant  laughed 
cheerily. 

He  held  his  glass  cupped  in  his  hands  to  warm 
the  wine.  An  exquisite  aroma,  as  of  autumn 
leaves,  hovered  over  the  table  from  that  single 
glass  and  the  uncorked  bottle.  Peggy  inhaled 

[99] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

the  fragrance  with  unconscious  pleasure  while 
she  watched  a  bullet-headed,  short-cropped  offi- 
cer at  the  next  table.  This  Prussian  had  heard 
the  airman's  words  and  had  turned  in  an  intent 
frowning  scrutiny  of  the  airman's  back.  The 
airman  had  clearly  made  an  enemy.  Peggy 
laughed.  What  difference?  One  or  a  dozen  or 
a  hundred? 

She  would  not  touch  her  pudding.  The  air- 
man finished  his. 

"Take  mine,  Monty,"  she  said.  "I  don't  want 
it."  She  turned  to  the  girl.  "I  seldom  eat 
sweets,"  she  said,  continuing  in  English. 

The  lieutenant  lifted  a  chiding  finger. 

"You've  been  a  lot  in  England,"  he  laughed. 
"Do  you  know  how  I  know?" 

"Wrong,  Herr  Leutnant,"  said  the  airman  as 
he  looked  up  from  Peggy's  pudding.  "In  our 
state  we  always  call  dessert  sweets." 

"Why,  certainly!"  Peggy  agreed. 

"My    trap    for    an    Englishwoman    did    not 
.spring,  Fargo."    In  the  genial  camaraderie  in- 
spired by  the  wine  he  dropped  the  Monsieur.   "I 
must  help  you  with  your  passes  to-morrow,"  he 
added. 

Peggy  fancied  a  glance  of  triumph  from  the 
Belgian  girl. 

[100] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

The  coffee  came  and  was  hurriedly  drunk. 
They  rose,  the  last  to  go. 

Peggy  saw  that  the  lieutenant,  as  he  helped 
the  girl  on  with  her  cloak,  clasped  her  throat  with 
a  little  caress  as  he  adjusted  the  collar  from  be- 
hind. She  saw  the  girl  smile  and  droop  her  eyes, 
as  if  at  a  whispered  word.  She,  too,  heard  a 
whisper  as  the  airman  held  her  moleskin. 

"What  next?"  he  whispered. 

"Search  me!"  she  answered.  She  heard  his 
suppressed  chuckle. 

She  lingered,  fastening  her  cloak.  The  other 
couple  walked  toward  the  door. 

"She  suspects  something  at  the  convent,"  she 
murmured.  "Tell  some  Belgian  priest  to-mor- 
row to  get  word  there.  The  nuns  must  not  talk 
— must  not  trust  us — when  we  come." 

"It's  my  job,"  the  airman  said  as  they  fol- 
lowed. "Look  out  for  mademoiselle.  The  hall 
porter  warned  me." 

Peggy  nodded. 

"Your  name?"  she  asked. 

"My  mother's — Mrs.  Emily  Stoneman,  Pasa- 
dena, California.  You'll  let  her  know  if  anything 
happens?  And  yours?" 

"Margaret  Tr  avers — Miss  Travers — Toot- 
holme  Manor,  Churwell,  Berks." 

[101] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

Their  eyes  met  as  he  held  the  door  open  for 
her. 

"Thank  you!"  he  murmured. 

"Carry  on!"  she  whispered,  with  a  smile.  "Did 
you  pack  everything,  Monty?"  she  asked. 

"Not  a  shoestring  forgotten." 

"And  the  bag  is  down  here?" 

"It  is  down  here." 

"Good  boy!  Pay  the  bill." 

She  looked  him  over  as  he  walked  away.  The 
clothes  hung  loose,  but  fitted  well  enough  to  pass, 
for  his.  He  carried  himself  more  erectly  thair 
Geoffrey,  but  his  footsteps  flagged.  He  limped, 
she  saw,  sometimes. 

The  lieutenant  came  with  them  in  his  car, 
which  otherwise  would  have  been  stopped.  He 
was  boyishly  gay  at  the  success  of  his  dinner 
and  renewed  his  promise  of  help  with  passes. 
As  they  drove  through  the  silent  dark  streets  he 
told  them  of  a  big  hole  in  the  new  aerodrome 
near  Schaarbeek. 

"It's  no  military  secret,"  he  said;  "for  you'll 
see  it  as  you  drive  out  of  Brussels." 

"What  did  it?"  asked  the  airman  in  his  delib- 
erate voice. 

"Bombed  last  night.  The  beggar  flew  low 
[102] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

and  dropped  two  bull's-eyes.  Good  pluck! 
Good  shot!" 

"I  hope,"  said  the  airman  politely,  "that  the 
aerodrome  was  empty." 

"We  wish,"  came  through  the  darkness,  "that 
it  had  been." 

"An  English  plane,  of  course?" 

"Oh,  no ;  French.  He  had  to  come  down.  Blew 
his  machine  up — and  escaped.  Bah!  that  is,  for 
the  moment.  These  traitor  Belgian  peasants  are 
hiding  him." 

The  car  drew  up  before  a  shuttered  house. 
The  door  flew  open  to  a  voluble  welcome  from  a 
Belgian  maid. 

They  entered  a  salon,  all  yellow  brocade  and 
gilt  spindle-furniture  legs.  It  was  warm  and 
bright  there ;  but  the  brightest  thing  was  the  face 
of  the  Flemish  woman.  From  the  broad  dark 
face  peered  honest  eyes  that  were  filled  with 
tears,  and  she  laughed  almost  hysterically  as  she 
closed  the  door. 

Peggy,  absorbed,  paid  no  attention  to  the 
woman,  to  the  growing  surprise  and  indignation 
of  the  latter.  She  drew  herself  up  at  length  and 
said  coldly: 

"Monsieur  Geoffrey's  compliments,  madame." 
[103] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"Monsieur  Geoffrey's!"  Peggy  repeated,  run- 
ning over.  "Monsieur  Geoffrey,  you  said?" 

"But  yes,  madame.  Surely  Mademoiselle 
Yvonne  has  told  you?" 

"]STo,  no !    What  is  it?"  cried  breathless  Peggy. 

"At  Esschen,  madame.  He  saw  you.  He 
whispered  it  to  me — to  me,  madame.  He  said: 
'Tell  her  I  owe  my  escape  to  Mademoiselle 
Yvonne.  Tell  her  to  come  out — quick!  Tell 
her—  '  But  a  German  soldier  came  near.  That 
was  all." 

The  door  opened.  Mademoiselle  Duberges 
came  in.  Peggy  held  out  her  arms.  They  clasped 
in  a  close  embrace. 

"Come!"  Yvonne  said. 

They  left  the  room  with  arms  entwined. 


[104] 


Roderick  Stoneman,  forgotten  in  this  room  of 
yellow  sheen,  dropped  wearily  into  a  chair,  but 
quickly  stumbled  to  his  feet  lest  he  go  to  sleep. 
He  walked  backward  and  forward  half  the  length 
of  the  room,  his  head  bent  low,  his  hands  resting 
on  each  fragile  gilded  chair  or  table  as  he  passed. 
He  was  footsore.  Until  he  had  changed  into 
Geoffrey's  boots  at  the  hotel  he  had  worn  small 
stolen  shoes.  He  was  badly  bruised,  for  he  had 
had  rough  falls.  The  dry  warmth  scorched  his 
face  and  ears,  touched  by  frost.  All  these  phys- 
ical troubles  had  been  and  could  still  be  borne 
with  outward  indifference.  He  had  still  a  store 
of  vital  force  and  will  power.  He  could  not  use 
them.  That  was  the  trouble.  He  was  tied  fast, 
helpless. 

From  the  inner  salon  came  Madame  Campion 
in  soft  satin  slippers,  which  made  no  sound  on 
the  polished  floor.  She  stood  at  the  top  of  the 
three  steps,  which  were  as  wide  as  the  room  and 
divided  the  two  apartments,  and  looked  with  sur- 
prise at  the  bent  back  of  this  jaded  man.  He  was 

[105] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

holding  on  to  a  chair  and  staring  at  the  floor  in 
obvious  profound  lassitude  of  mind  and  body. 
She  had  had  a  dozen  words  with  her  niece  and 
had  learned  that  all  had  gone  well  at  the  dinner ; 
otherwise  anxiety  must  have  forced  her  to  ques- 
tion. Instead,  she  backed  quietly  away  and  sent 
Clothilde  in  to  him  with  a  bottle  of  champagne. 

Stoneman  drained  a  glass.  The  wine  was 
sweet;  but  it  helped  him  to  think. 

This  girl,  this  wonderful,  fearless  English 
girl,  whom  he  had  so  deeply  involved,  had  had  a 
message  which  proved  that  she  could  trust  the 
Belgian  girl.  Mademoiselle  Duberges,  after  all, 
was  no  spy;  had  had  no  previous  knowledge  of 
Miss  Travers;  and  mutual  confidence  had  been 
established.  Somebody — somebody  in  whom  Miss 
Travers  was  deeply  interested,  had  escaped  from 
Belgium  with  the  help  of  Mademoiselle  Du- 
berges; and  the  two  young  ladies  were  thus 
bound  in  a  common  dangerous  secret.  But  this 
tie  could  hardly  be  such  that  Miss  Travers  would 
dare  to  explain.  How  could  she  admit  that  one 
whom  she  had  introduced  as  a  husband  was  a 
stranger — a  stranger  who  brought  deadly  danger 
with  him? 

He  drained  another  glass.  He  must  keep  up 
until  Miss  Travers  made  a  chance  to  talk  with 

[106] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

him.  All  he  could  say,  all  he  could  tell  her,  was  to 
get  back;  to  get  out  of  Belgium — quick!  She 
might  leave  on  the  morrow,  perhaps.  He  could 
hide  somehow,  somewhere,  until  she  was  past  the 
frontier.  Then  it  did  not  matter.  If  he  said  he 
was  ill,  if  he  pretended  to  be,  would  they  let  him 
stay  hidden  here?  Across  the  frontier!  Safe! 
Miss  Travers  safe,  how  gladly  he  would  give 
himself  up !  Ah ! 

But  it  came  to  him  sharply  that  the  one  prac- 
ticable plan  would  almost  certainly  bring  ruin 
to  this  Belgian  girl.  All  her  friendships  with 
German  officers,  all  the  love  that  one  spoiled  pet 
of  the  regiment  felt  for  her,  could  not  save  her. 
How  bitter  they  would  be — those  hundred  Ger- 
man officers  who  had  watched  him  dine  among 
them !  How  vindictive  would  be  the  punishment 
inflicted  on  everybody  connected  with  the  affair. 
His  position  crystallized  in  a  sentence:  The 
safety  of  both  girls  hung  on  his.  That  was  the 
blunt,  pitiable  truth.  That  was  the  result  of 
speaking  a  cowardly  word  to  a  young  lady  in  a 
crowded  street.  Stoneman  buried  his  face  in 
his  hands  and  surrendered  for  a  moment  to  bitter 
self-reproaches. 

This  young  man,  quick  of  decision,  fire-quick 
in  execution,  resolute  of  will,  iron-nerved,  had 

[107] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

always  said  that  he  could  find  a  way  out  from 
anywhere ;  he  knew  better  now.  He  had  held  in 
contempt  the  man  who  sat  still  and  let  things 
happen ;  he  was  humbled  now.  He  had  cherished 
an  exalted  ideal  of  woman;  now  he  had  involved 
two — probably  more — in  irretrievable  disaster. 
He  remembered  the  idle  dreams  of  extreme 
youth;  dreams  of  chivalry,  in  which  he  was  the 
rescuer  and  the  hero.  Now  a  girl  was  in  extreme 
peril  through  his  folly,  and  he  must  sit  helpless, 
with  no  higher  task  than  to  guard  his  tongue. 
He  must  await  her  commands.  He  must  be 
Montgomery  Fargo  until  told  he  was  not;  a 
husband  until  otherwise  ordered. 

It  was  on  this  thought  that  Madame  Campion 
came  again,  and  this  time  she  signalled  her  ap- 
proach. He  went  over  to  the  wide  steps,  which 
she  was  descending.  Her  dead-black  dress  amid 
all  this  yellow  haze  seemed  to  him  to  announce 
death  like  a  trumpet.  She  took  his  two  hands  in 
hers  and  pressed  them  warmly. 

"Any  American  is  welcome,"  she  said;  "but 
Geoffrey's  brother-in-law — may  I  say  it? — is  al- 
most as  a  son  to  me." 

He  looked  at  her  in  helpless  misery,  the  only 
moment  in  which  he  failed. 

"I  thank  you,  madame!"  he  stammered. 
[108] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

She  glanced  from  him  to  the  bottle.  This  un- 
accountably tired  man  had  taken  only  two 
glasses. 

"Sit  there No;  I  insist!"  This  stately  lady 

herself  put  a  small  table  in  front  of  him  and 
poured  two  glasses.  Then  she  placed  a  tortoise- 
shell  box,  inlaid  with  gold  and  lined  with  cedar, 
in  front  of  him  and  lighted  a  match.  "Geoffrey 
said  they  were  good,"  she  told  him  as  he  puffed 
at  the  cigarette.  "My  nephew  imported  them 
from  Cairo.  They  are  dry,  of  course.  He  was 
killed  at  Liege.  Do  not  speak,  monsieur.  Lean 
back  and  rest  at  ease.  We  Belgians  will  grieve 
after  the  war;  until  then  we  have  no  tears.  And 
now,  our  little  toast.  You  must  empty  your 
glass.  Our  Belgian  toast:  Le  Roi  et  Victoire!" 

"Le  Roi  et  Victoirc"  he  murmured,  and 
drank. 

She  seated  herself  at  his  side,  and  he  rallied 
all  his  forces  to  carry  on.  Everything  he  said 
must  almost  certainly  be  contradicted  by  every- 
thing Miss  Travers  was  probably  telling  Made- 
moiselle Duberges;  but  he  must  not  hesitate. 

"The  dinner?  All  was  well?  Ah,  but  what  a 
trial  for  Peggy!  I  may  call  her  Peggy,  may  I 
not?  We  have  heard  so  much  of  her.  It  was  a 
desperate  chance  for  Yvonne  to  take,  but  such 

[109] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

a  help  to  you  to  know  the  young  lieutenant.  You 
are  neutral,  of  course.  It  was  easy  for  you ;  but 
la  la! — Peggy  among  the  Germans!  Yvonne  is 
too  daring.  And  there  was  no  contretemps?" 

"None,  Madame  Campion.  We  have  the 
promise  of  the  lieutenant  to  help  with  passes." 

"Oh,  but  that  is  splendid !  I  was  thunderstruck 
when  I  saw  Yvonne  wished  to  accept.  It  is  well, 
now  that  it  ends  well.  Your  Peggy  must  be  as 
brave  as  Geoffrey." 

The  strong  face  had  not  been  wont  to  express 
tenderness,  but  it  expressed  more  than  tender- 
ness now.  The  voice  lingered  affectionately  on 
the  name  of  Geoffrey. 

"She  is  the  bravest  woman  in  the  world!"  he 
said.  "Do  not  call  me  neutral,  madame." 

"Of  course  not.  I  know  that,  or  you  could 
never  have  won  your  beautiful  wife.  Still,  it  is 
not  quite  the  same.  And  did  you  see  Geoffrey  at 
Esschen?" 

"No,  madame." 

"As  well,  perhaps.  If  Peggy  had  recognized 
him  she  must  have  cried  out,  I  think.  She  is  very 
like  him,  don't  you  think?" 

"Very,  madame."  He  laid  down  the  end  of 
the  cigarette  he  had  fiercely  smoked. 

"Light  another,  please.  They  do  you  good. 
[110] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

And  fill  your  glass.  You  were  very  tired,  mon- 
sieur, and  you  are  getting  rested  now.  And  how 
soon  did  Yvonne  get  a  chance  to  whisper  the 
splendid  news?" 

"No  chance,  madame.  We  did  not  know  until 
we  came  into  this  house." 

ffMon  Dieu!  But  how  it  would  have  cheered 
Peggy!  And  Yvonne  bursting  with  it  too!"  She 
smiled.  "It  was  a  good  ending.  It  took  away  a 
bad  taste  from  the  mouth,  perhaps.  I  came  home 
trembling.  Yes ;  it  is  true.  I  am  of  granite,  they 

say ;  but  when  an  earthquake  comes I  could 

not  think  how  you  and  Peggy  knew  us.  Ah,  but 
you  were  quick  and  splendid !  It  was  so  unlucky 
that  the  lieutenant  came  just  one  minute  too 
soon.  But  I  guessed,  after  all.  I  saw  that  Mere 
St.  Ursule  had  written  of  us.  Why,  I  could  not 
think.  But  it  was  very  lucky." 

"No  one  wrote  about  you,  madame.  We  did 
not  know  at  all  who  you  were." 

Madame  Campion's  lineaments  had  been  mod- 
elled on  patrician  bones  by  a  lifetime  of  haughty 
repression;  but  five  months  of  war  had  taught 
those  hard  lines  how  to  relax.  Her  look  of  as- 
tonishment was  as  naive  as  would  have  been  that 
of  Clothilde. 

"Anything  might  happen  in  Belgium,"  he  said. 

[in] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"How  did  we  know  that  you  had  not  some  warn- 
ing, some  message  for  us?" 

She  eyed  him  shrewdly  with  a  sombre  smile. 
The  truth  was  dragged  from  him. 

"And  when  did  you  know,"  she  asked,  "that 
Yvonne  was  not  a  German  spy?" 

"When  we  entered  this  house,  madame." 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  flinging  up  her  hands;  "but 

that  is  not  possible!     But,  of  course Ah, 

Peggy  is  brave!  And  she  sat  through  that  din- 
ner !  Poor  Yvonne !  There  are  many  who  think 
as  you  thought." 

An  instant  of  silence,  a  heavy  cloud;  then 
madame  rallied. 

t(Mon  Dieu!"  she  cried.  "We  were  so  aston- 
ished. We  could  not  believe  it.  Clothilde  came 
back,  exploding.  Mademoiselle  was  in  Belgium. 
Monsieur  Geoffrey  had  seen  her  in  Esschen. 
Yes;  it  was  true.  Monsieur  Geoffrey  was  sure. 
We  could  not  think  how  she  had  got  a  passport. 
The  last  thing  we  guessed  was  that  she  had  mar- 
ried a  lucky  neutral,  who  gets  a  charming  bride, 
and  can  bring  her  to  her  brother  in  unhappy  Bel- 
gium. You  see,  Clothilde  came  down  in  the  train 
with  you ;  but  she  did  not  see  you,  and  so  we  had 
no  clue." 

[112] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"Of  course  not,  madame.  You  must  have  been 
puzzled." 

"I  should  think  so!  We  flew  in  search."  Ma- 
dame smiled.  "The  hotel  register  told  us." 

His  wandering  eyes  fell  on  a  crape-bound 
photograph  of  a  young  officer  in  the  Belgian 
uniform. 

"Yes;  Yvonne's  brother,"  said  madame;  "two 
years  older.  She  is  all  alone  now,  except  for 
me.  .  .  .  But  smoke  again,  monsieur.  And  how 
long  have  you  been  married?" 

"Just  two  weeks  to-day,  madame,  in  Lon- 
don." 

"Aha !  And  you  bring  her  to  Geoffrey.  And 
she  is  so  delighted  to  have  missed  him,  of  course. 
What  a  honeymoon!  How  happy  you  must  be." 

"Very  happy,  madame." 

"But,  my  dear  young  man,  you  should  exult 
in  words  of  great  enthusiasm  over  your  beautiful 
bride,"  she  protested,  with  a  laugh. 

"Does  she  not  speak  for  herself?"  he  asked, 
with  an  answering  laugh. 

"Ah,  with  many  beautiful  tongues!  But  we 
women  are  so  that  the  one  we  wish  to  hear  is  the 
husband's." 

"She  is  the  most  wonderful  woman  who  ever 
lived!"  he  cried  with  conviction. 

[113] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"Ah,  that  is  better!  That  is  right.  Geoffrey 
thinks  the  world  of  her.  We  found  him  just  in 
time.  It  was  accident — just  that ;  and  how  lucky ! 
Yvonne  has  a  chateau  near  the  convent ;  all  dead 
and  locked  up,  of  course,  but  not  looted,  and  only 
one  chimney  gone,  from  a  shell.  We  went  there. 
The  doctor  told  us  of  an  English  soldier, 
wounded  and  no  longer  safe  in  the  convent  cel- 
lar; for  a  Bavarian  patrol  had  been  quartered 
in  the  village.  We  carried  him  that  night " 

"We,  madame?" 

Madame  laughed. 

"Five  women,  in  the  dark  midnight,  and  two 
men.  He  was  not  even  jarred,  he  said;  and  it 
was  three  miles.  We  had  to  leave  him  for  five 
days  with  Clothilde  until  we  got  passes.  He 
came  as  footman  on  our  carriage.  We  brought 
him  here  nearly  five  weeks  ago ;  and  he  got  better 
so  fast.  Did  you  know  him  well,  monsieur?" 

"No,  madame.  You  see,  I  came  to  England 
on  a  visit  and  met  Miss  Travers." 

Madame  patted  his  hand.  She  was  pleased 
with  the  tonic  effect  of  her  talk  and  the  cham- 
pagne and  the  cigarettes.  The  truth  is  that  her 
queries  had  keyed  him  to  feverish  tension,  lest  he 
contradict  himself. 

"Tell  me,"  she  asked;  "What  is  that  white 
[114] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

horse?  I  could  not  understand.  Geoffrey  spoke 
of  a  white  horse,  a  great  white  horse." 

Stoneman  forced  a  laugh. 

"In  America,"  he  said,  "we  have  a  saying: 
Where  there's  a  white  horse,  there's  a  red-haired 
girl." 

"Ungallant!"  she  said;  "Peggy  has  the  beauti- 
ful auburn  hair." 

"Oh,  I  was  not  thinking  of  her,  madame." 

"But  the  white  horse,  monsieur,  that  lies  on 
its  side  always  on  the  hill  above  the  house?" 

Fortunately  the  author  of  "Tom  Brown  at 
Rugby"  had  written  "The  Scouring  of  the  White 
Horse,"  and  Stoneman  had  read  the  book.  He 
told  the  tale,  and  it  fitted;  and,  even  in  his  des- 
perate plight,  he  could  not  but  chuckle  at  the 
ludicrous  association  of  this  gigantic  chalk-carved 
monument  with  Miss  Travers'  burnished  hair. 
Madame  heard  this  chuckle  with  beaming  pleas- 
ure. Decidedly  she  was  doing  him  good ! 

"We  photographed  Geoffrey,"  she  said,  "in 
his  peasant's  dress,  with  his  rough  beard  and  a 
bandaged  chin.  We  sent  it  out  by  our  secret  post. 
Our  friends  ransacked  the  refugee  camps  of  Hol- 
land until  they  found  a  peasant  who  looked  some- 
thing like  the  picture.  They  got  a  pass  for  him 
and  another  man  to  come  down  and  return. 

[115] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

They  came — our  servants,  we  said — and  we  sent 
Geoffrey's  double  to  our  estate,  where  he  slipped 
across  the  lines,  we  hope.  Away  went  Geoffrey 
on  his  pass  this  morning,  with  the  other  man  to 
speak  Flemish  if  they  were  questioned,  and  Clo- 
tliilde  to  help.  It  succeeded.  Simple,  wasn't  it? 
Yvonne's  idea." 

"Is  it  as  easy  as  that?"  Stoneman  said  ungra- 
ciously. 

"Easy?"  repeated  madame,  a  little  surprised. 
"It  was  achieving  the  impossible." 

"Pardon,  madame;  but  you  tell  of  your  great 
efforts  so  lightly " 

Hard  or  easy,  he  reflected,  that  way  was  not 
for  him ;  for  his  mysterious  disappearance  would 
involve  everybody  as  deeply  as  his  discovery. 
He  turned  as  the  door  opened.  He  hoped  Miss 
Travers  was  coming,  that  he  might  hint  to  her 
what  he  had  been  saying.  But  it  was  only  Clo- 
thilde,  who  said  quietly,  "Pardon,  monsieur," 
and  then  addressed  madame  in  Flemish. 

"Mademoiselle  Yvonne's  compliments  to  ma- 
clame,"  she  said;  "and  madame  will  please  not 
be  alarmed  or  surprised." 

"Go  on,  Clothilde.   What  has  happened?" 

"The  young  ladies  desire  to  spare  the  feelings 
of  a  brave  and  gallant  gentleman  who  has  fought 

[116] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

for  France  and  Belgium,  and  is  in  deep  misfor- 
tune." 

"The  young  ladies,  Clothilde?" 

"It  is  so,  madame." 

"Have  a  care,  Clothilde.  You  speak  with  a 
growing  excitement.  Moderate  yourself." 

"Yes,  madame;  pardon.  He  is  not  the  hus- 
band of  the  young  lady." 

"Repeat  it,  if  you  please,  Clothilde." 

"It  is  true,  madame.  Prepare  yourself,  ma- 
dame. He  is  of  the  war  birds  of  the  French." 

"Pardon,  monsieur,"  madame  said,  smiling. 
"It  is  of  to-morrow's  dejeuner  that  we  speak.  It 
seems  that  some  eggs  have  been  broken ;  and  eggs 
are  eggs  in  Antwerp  to-day." 

"I  am  sorry,  madame."   He  laughed  with  her. 

"Go  on,  Clothilde." 

"Monsieur  attacked  the  Zeppelin  house  beyond 
Brussels  from  the  sky  last  night,  and  afterward 
he  had  to  descend.  He  got  safely  into  the  city 
and  addressed  a  question  to  the  English  young 
lady;  and  then  you  spoke  to  her.  There  was  no 
time  for  denials.  It  is  thought  that  monsieur  is 
deeply  mortified ;  but  I  am  to  say  that  the  pass- 
port mademoiselle  has  for  her  brother  will  do  for 
him." 

"Careful,  Clothilde;  you  have  had  months  of 
[117] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HATRED  GIRL 

training,  and  yet  you  steal  a  glance  at  monsieur! 
Is  his  room  ready?" 

"I  have  been  occupied  with  mademoiselle." 

"He  and  I  will  arrange  it.  You  are  too  busy. 
Is  there  plenty  of  hot  water  for  his  bath?" 

"Yes,  madame." 

"The  finest  silk  pyjamas  of  Monsieur  Jaques 
— put  them  on  the  radiator." 

"The  new  ones?  Ah,  madarne,  they  came  from 
London  after  Monsieur  Jaques'  death." 

"Those,  Clothilde.  I  thank  you.  You  have 
done  well." 

"Thank  you,  madame."  The  maid  closed  the 
door  softly  behind  her. 

Stoneman  had  hoped  that  the  dreadful  farce 
was  ended ;  but  this  quiet  dialogue  could  only  be 
as  madame  said,  about  the  kitchen  or  the  bed 
linen.  He  rose,  because  madame  rose,  and 
moved  to  open  the  door  for  her.  An  extraordi- 
nary movement  on  her  part  checked  him.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  she  floated  down,  down;  and 
it  was  not  until  that  grey,  stately  head  was  al- 
most on  a  level  with  his  knee  that  it  dawned  on 
him  that  she  was  curtsying  to  him;  curtsying 
deep,  in  the  homage  of  courts.  He  burst  into  a 
strangled  sob  as  she  drew  herself  up  with  a  noble 
dignity. 

[118] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"I  had  thought,  monsieur,"  she  said,  "never 
to  do  that  until  my  king  came  home.  But  it  is 
your  due.  You  are  the  first  of  our  Allies  to 
come  in  arms  to  our  captured  city.  You  fight 
for  us.  Your  nation  feeds  our  poor.  Monsieur, 
we  are  all  deeply  grateful." 

"Madame,"  he  answered  in  a  broken  voice,  "I 
bring  great  trouble  to  you  and  you  receive  me  as 
a  conqueror!" 

Tears  were  in  her  eyes — eyes  that  had  cnce 
been  hard  and  repellent,  but  tender,  almost  af- 
fectionate, now,  after  five  months  of  national 
and  personal  suffering.  She  put  her  hands  on 
his  shoulders  and  drew  him  to  her  and  kissed 
him  on  the  forehead. 

"Come!"  she  said,  taking  his  arm.  "You  were 
not  in  bed  last  night  and  I  have  been  taxing  your 
poor  tired  brains.  Our  servants  have  all  gone, 
and  you  and  I  must  get  your  room  ready." 

Upstairs,  two  girls  looked  into  each  other's 
eyes  and  smiled,  for  a  genuine  laugh,  a  man's 
laugh,  echoed  from  below.  Madame  was  making 
good  fun  about  the  ridiculous  idea  of  a  white 
horse  and  a  red-haired  girl,  and  an  exhausted 
man  was  being  mothered. 


[119] 


VI 


Peggy  lay  back,  deliciously  resting  on  a  sofa. 
She  wore  a  silk  dressing-gown  of  Yvonne's,  and 
her  bare  feet  were  thrust  into  a  pair  of  Japanese 
slippers  of  plaited  straw.  A  little  smile  was  on 
her  lips  as  her  eyes  roved  indolently,  but  with  a 
purpose.  This  large,  warm  room  in  cool  grey 
and  pale  blue,  and  here  and  there  a  touch  of  old 
rose,  was  an  exquisite  product  of  individual 
taste.  She  had  been  pleased,  soothed,  when  she 
had  first  come  in,  an  hour  before.  As  she  had 
subconsciously  noted  details,  she  had  divined 
that  it  was  little  more  than  a  beautiful  empty 
shell.  A  casual  comment  from  Yvonne  had  told 
her  that  most  of  the  valuables  of  the  house  had 
been  sent  to  The  Hague  before  the  bombard- 
ment. Peggy,  half  dreaming,  looked  from  the 
mirror  over  the  dressing-table  to  the  canopied 
bed,  and  then  to  the  bureau;  and  after  that  to 
the  chiffonier,  with  its  curved  and  swelling  fronts 
to  each  drawer. 

She  was  looking  in  vain  for  a  straight  line. 
Everything  was  in  curves,  graceful,  winding — 

[120] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

she  thought  it  excessive.  Everything  was  French, 
and  obviously  original  Louis-Quinze ;  and  Peggy 
rightly  guessed  that  it  had  come  direct  from  the 
artist  cabinetmaker  to  an  ancestor  of  Yvonne. 
She  contrasted  her  own  simple,  breeze-swept 
bedroom  with  this  and  smiled  again;  and  then 
she  looked  at  the  blank  wall,  where  at  home  a 
grate  would  be,  and  where  a  jolly  ruddy  fire 
would  be  glowing. 

She  pictured  Yvonne  at  the  manor,  a  daughter 
of  luxury  and  warmth,  shivering  in  the  great 
gusty  hall,  nursing  the  fire,  looking  askance  at 
the  collie  and  the  fox  terrier,  that  shared  the 
tiger  skin,  lifting  widened  eyes  when  asked  to 
visit  the  stables;  staring  when  a  ten-mile  run 
over  the  downs  was  suggested.  All  this  half- 
conscious  reverie  came  as  the  result  of  a  word 
here  and  there,  a  gesture,  a  glance  now  and  again 
from  those  eyes  of  Yvonne,  which  expressed  so 
much  and  yet  sometimes  told  so  little. 

Peggy  hoped — yet  hated  to  hope.  She  was 
on  fire  with  gratitude  and  love  for  the  girl  who 
had  nursed  and  saved  her  brother;  yet,  to  share 
Geoffrey,  to  give  him  up,  the  other  half  of  her — 
the  thought  stabbed  her.  She  was  in  a  glow  of 
admiration  for  the  grace,  the  tenderness  with 
which  her  revelation  of  the  airman  had  been  re- 

[121] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

ceived.  Yvonne  had  never  flinched  from  the 
added  burden.  So  far  from  blaming,  she  had 
praised.  Yet  Peggy  feared  that  this  hothouse 
flower  would  fade  on  the  open  downs  of  Berk- 
shire; and  wondered  whether  the  complex  prod- 
uct of  intensive  Belgian  culture  could  make  sim- 
ple outdoor  Geoffrey  happy. 

Geoffrey  safe,  the  airman  in  bed,  the  room 
warm  and  reticently  fragrant,  the  sofa  comfor- 
table, a  delightful  hour  with  a  delightful  girl; 
it  is  no  wonder  Peggy  felt  that  the  day's  work 
was  well  done  and  that  she  let  both  mind  and 
body  relax.  Her  vagrant  thoughts  about  Yvonne 
and  Geoffrey,  hardly  registered  in  her  brain, 
were  pleasant  dreaming,  founded  on  little  more 
than  nothing,  tinged  with  romance  and  touched 
with  humor. 

It  was  funny  that  upright  and  downright 
Geoffrey,  with  his  blunt  ways,  could  have  seri- 
ously interested  Yvonne,  all  finesse  and  sweet 
artifice,  which  had  become  natural.  She  won- 
dered, smiling,  what  Geoffrey  thought.  He 
never  flirted  or  philandered;  but  then,  he  had 
never  been  rescued  and  hidden  and  nursed  by  a 
girl;  and  this  girl  had  a  quaint,  rare  beauty.  If 
it  should  be  that  these  little  signs  really  were 
signs;  and  if  dear  old  blind  Geoffrey,  as  was 

[122] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  SED-HAIRED  GIRL 

most  likely  the  case,  had  never  seen  one  of 
them,  and  was  only  grateful,  and  very,  very 

friendly Peggy  closed  her  eyes  on  the  lazy 

thought  that,  in  that  case,  something  must  be 
done;  there  was  a  heavy  debt  to  be  paid,  and 
Geoffrey  always  paid  in  full.  She  was  nearly 
asleep,  and  she  thought  that  Geoffrey,  in  bound- 
ing health,  would  fear  rather  than  love  this  girl; 
he  avoided  girls  who  did  not  know  how  to  be 
"just  pally,"  and  who  knew  a  lot  about  art  and 
music,  and  nothing  about  horses  and  dogs  and 
the  countryside  in  winter. 

But  Peggy  came  suddenly  wide  awake,  for 
she  thought  of  the  fresh,  boyish  arrogant  face  of 
Leutnant  von  Schmiedell  and  how  his  merry  eyes 
had  softened  as  he  looked  at  Yvonne;  looked 
open  love,  careless  who  saw.  Peggy  had  forgot- 
ten him,  had  forgotten  the  dinner;  had  uncon- 
sciously, as  it  were,  taken  ten  minutes'  vacation 
between  difficulties.  His  manner,  so  confident, 
so  assured,  was  that  of  an  engaged  man;  or  at 
least  of  one  who  has  a  definite  understanding. 
Yvonne's  answering  smiles;  Yvonne's  glances 
from  charming,  provocative  eyes;  her  deference 
to  his  wishes,  yet  dextrous  management  of  him; 
her  unprotesting  acceptance  of  his  brutally  tact- 
less comments  about  Belgians;  the  touch  of  her 

[123] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

beautifully  curved  lip  to  the  glass  that  held  the 
blood-red  wine  from  Louvain 

Peggy  pondered  over  that  incident.  The  man 
was  born  and  bred  a  gentleman.  He  had  the 
most  engaging  natural  manner.  He  was  cosmo- 
politan, old  in  experience,  young  in  heart,  and 
had  associated  all  his  life  with  cultured  people  in 
many  countries.  And  yet,  with  a  buoyant  good 
will,  and  as  a  special  compliment  to  his  guests — 
one  of  whom  was  a  Belgian  girl  whom  he  ob- 
viously hoped  and  expected  to  marry — he  had 
produced  a  bottle  of  wine  from  Louvain  and 
proudly  told  where  it  came  from.  With  com- 
placent obtuseness,  he  had  grossly  insulted 
where  he  had  meant  to  do  honor. 

The  incident  typified,  crystallized  all  that 
Peggy  had  read  and  heard,  all  that  France  and 
England  had  learned,  and  that  the  United  States 
was  beginning  to  learn  of  the  appalling  con- 
genital and  acquired  egotism  of  the  Prussian ;  an 
egotism  that  stultified  his  diplomacy,  made  ludi- 
crous his  splutter  about  his  civilization,  and  justi- 
fied to  him  his  ravages  and  ravishments,  his  bru- 
talities and  his  murders.  It  shed  a  further  bright 
light  for  Peggy:  The  lieutenant  had  a  boyish, 
not  unpleasing  vanity.  He  had  the  egomania  of 
his  people,  especially  rabid  in  the  class  to  which 

[124] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

he  belonged.  Such  a  man  was  easy  to  deceive. 
Yvonne,  then,  was  a  secret  agent  for  the  Bel- 
gians. 

Peggy  sat  up,  put  her  elbows  on  her  knees, 
cupped  her  chin  on  her  hands,  and  looked  at  the 
place  where  the  fire  ought  to  be.  The  thought 
was  revolting.  However  noble  the  cause,  a  girl 
like  Yvonne,  so  dainty,  sweet  through  and 
through — that  had  been  proved  in  an  hour  of 
intimacy — pretending  love  for  a  German!  Oh, 
there  were  others  to  do  such  things;  others  who, 
with  lure  of  body  and  eyes There  came  rec- 
ollections of  a  sentence,  the  one  sentence  Yvonne 
had  uttered  about  the  delicate  relation  that  acci- 
dent and  necessity  had  fixed  between  two 
strangers  of  opposite  sex:  "It  is  nothing  to  save 
a  brave  man's  life  by  pretending  to  be  his  wife," 
Yvonne  had  said;  "there  are  pretendings  that 
scorch  the  soul;  but  this  is  not  one."  It  had 
passed  unheeded;  there  had  been  so  much  to 
hear  about  Geoffrey,  so  much  to  tell  about  the 
airman.  But  it  came  back  now,  and,  with  it, 
recollection  of  a  sombre  face,  a  sudden  dropping 
of  the  eyes,  a  break  in  the  voice. 

It  was  recalled  the  more  vividly  because  it  was 
the  one  and  only  moment  in  which  Yvonne's 
blithe  fortitude  had  been  shaken.  Peggy  sprang 

[125] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HATRED  GIRL 

to  her  feet  and  stood  with  hands  clenched, 
frowning  heavily.  A  spy?  And  by  this  spying 
health  and  freedom  to  Geoffrey!  Eyes  of  allure, 
and  smiles  of  invitation!  But  for  these,  the  air- 
man would  be  in  prison.  Love,  pretended  love, 
for  a  vain,  arrogant  boy?  What  great  thing  had 
this  pretence  that  scorched  the  soul  wrought  for 
Belgium?  For  Geoffrey  and  the  airman  must 
be  but  incidents.  Peggy  asked  herself  if  she 
would  make  a  like  pretence  for  Geoffrey  or  for 
England.  There  was  only  one  answer:  Of 
course!  Of  course! 

Her  forehead  came  unknotted  and  a  smile 
flashed  across  her  dry  lips.  She  had  dared  to 
censure  Yvonne !  And  who  was  she  to  criticize  ? 
She  had  gone  farther.  In  one  hour  she  herself 
had  gone  farther ;  and  for  a  stranger !  There  was 
humor  in  that  revolt  against  the  word  "spy." 
What  was  she  herself?  Ridiculous  old  prejudices 
died  hard,  she  thought,  and  she  must  not  blame 
herself  if  their  ghosts  stalked  near  her  when  she 
was  half  asleep. 

What  a  burden  must  this  girl,  delicate  to  fra- 
gility, be  bearing;  what  cares,  hidden  beneath 
those  luminous  eyes,  which  must  be  kept  bright 
for  a  German  lover;  what  sorrows,  mocked  by 
those  brilliant  smiles,  which  must  flash  at  will  to 

[126] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

keep  an  enemy  tame!  Grieving  for  an  adored 
brother — Yvonne  had  told  her  how  he  had  died ; 
openly  insulted  by  patrician  Belgians — Peggy 
remembered  the  incident  of  the  Avenue  de  Key- 
ser;  daily,  hourly,  at  sharpest  tension  and  on 
guard,  with  never  a  chance  to  relax!  Peggy's 
tears  were  near,  but  they  did  not  come ;  for  that 
was  not  Peggy's  way.  In  all  that  long  hour 
Yvonne  had  not  uttered  one  word  about  herself, 
except  that  indirect  reference  to  pretences  that 
scorched;  had  not  had  one  thing  done  for  her; 
and  everybody  else  had  been  arranged  for,  and 
planned  for,  and  cared  for.  .  .  . 

Yvonne  came,  still  in  her  black  dress,  carry- 
ing a  suitcase. 

"I  am  so  sorry,"  she  said;  "but  we  have  been 
ripping  to  pieces  an  aviator's  costume.  It  is  not 
safe  to  have  it  about.  He  is  sound  asleep.  Aunt 
Maria  tucked  him  in." 

"And  why  should  I  not  have  helped?"  Peggy 
reproached  as  she  opened  the  suitcase. 

"You  are  tired.     You  should  rest." 

Peggy  laughed. 

"Mr.  Stoneman  is  very  orderly,"  she  said;  she 
was  looking  at  little  parcels  all  neatly  wrapped 
in  tissue  paper. 

"Sponge  bag,"  she  inventoried,  feeling  the 
[127] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AXD  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

parcels;  "hairbrush;  slippers."  She  unwrapped 
one  and  her  night-dress  hung  down.  "He  folded 
it,"  she  cried,  "in  the  same  folds — an  old  maid!" 

"Do  you  know,"  Yvonne  said,  "I  think  that 

a  man  in  danger  like  that He  wants  to  get 

his  uniform  locked  up  quick — and  he  is  in  a  great 
hurry.  Well,  he  is  very  cool  and  calm,  isn't  he? 
And  he  pays  great  respect  to  your  belongings, 
doesn't  he?" 

Peggy  looked  at  Yvonne. 

"I  was  thinking  just  that,"  she  admitted. 

"But  you  are  English  and  you  didn't  say  it." 

"Do  you  really  think,"  Peggy  laughed,  "that 
you  are  more  frank  than  I  am?" 

Yvonne  smiled. 

"Do  you  think  that  Geoffrey  is  frank?"  she 
asked. 

Peggy  looked  into  her  eyes.  Yvonne's 
dropped. 

"He  tells  me  everything,"  Peggy  answered, 
with  a  significant  stress  on  the  last  word.  But 
the  only  response  was  a  demure  shake  of  the 
head. 

Within  ten  minutes  Peggy  was  brushing 
Yvonne's  long  dark  hair,  silky  fine,  and  listen- 
ing to  a  pitiful  story. 

Otto  von  Schmiedell,  it  appeared,  had  lived 
[128] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

for  a  time  in  Antwerp,  and  had  been  the  intimate 
friend  of  Yvonne's  brother  and  all  but  engaged 
to  Yvonne. 

"I  was  fond  of  him,"  Yvonne  said.  "His  fam- 
ily, in  Berlin,  were  pleased.  Jaques  was  happy 
about  it.  Otto  went  suddenly  in  July;  called  to 
Berlin,  he  said.  He  would  be  back  soon,  he  told 
us.  He  knew  then,  I  think,  how  he  was  coming 
back." 

She  told  how  one  October  day,  shortly  after 
the  city  had  surrendered,  Madame  von  Stilen 
had  come,  crying.  Her  husband,  a  lifelong  friend 
of  Yvonne's  dead  father,  short-tempered  through 
ill-health,  had  been  goaded  into  uttering  defiant 
truths  and  was  to  be  sent  a  prisoner  to  Germany. 
Yvonne  might  save  him. 

There  was  a  chance.  Herr  von  Schmiedell  had 
come.  Herr  von  Stilen  had  seen  him  at  head- 
quarters, a  private  secretary,  treated  almost  as 
a  son.  Surely  Yvonne  would  beg,  implore!  .  .  . 
Yvonne,  astonished,  indignant,  had  reminded 
her  of  a  brother,  dead,  and  of  the  resolve  of  Ant- 
werp ladies  to  speak  to  no  German  officers,  to 
recognize  no  former  ties;  Madame  von  Stilen 
had  pleaded  the  harder.  Then  the  servant  had 
come.  Could  Madame  Campion  and  mademoi- 
selle receive  the  Herr  Leutnant  von  Schmiedell? 
[129] 


THE  WHITE  HOESE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

It  was  the  hand  of  God,  madame  had  said,  clasp- 
ing Yvonne's  knees,  and  she  had  nodded  to  the 
man  and  run  away  weeping,  murmuring  that  she 
would  wait  in  the  house  for  the  good  news. 

"And  so,"  Yvonne  said,  "he  came  in.  I  was, 
crying.  I  was  shaking.  I  was  a  child  then,  a 
frightened  child — and  it  is  not  two  months  ago. 
So  it  began.  'It  is  war,'  he  said;  'but  war  is  be- 
tween nations ;  not  between  us — not  between  you 
and  me,  Yvonne.'  And  I  was  sure  that  Madame 
von  Stilen  was  listening,  and  her  cries  were  still 
in  my  ears.  I  did  not  turn  my  back.  I  did  not 
order  him  out.  And  so  I  lost  my  chance.  So  it 
began.  Of  course  he  misread  my  tears,  my  agi- 
tation. He  cried,  too — for  his  friend;  his  dear 
friend  Jaques." 

"Lean  back,"  said  Peggy  softly.  "I  can  do 
it  better."  She  kept  on  steadily  brushing,  sooth- 
ing but  not  caressing,  steadying  and  upholding 
the  girl,  who  was  beginning  to  shiver.  "That's 
right.  Shut  your  eyes  and  try  to  go  to  sleep." 

"No.  Let  me  talk.  It  is  good  to  talk.  I  have 
talked  to  no  one  but  Aunt  Maria,  and  she — she 
is  beautiful  and  brave;  but  she  thinks  you  must 
never  let  go.  It  is  such  a  relief."  She  drew  a 
long  breath.  "Monsieur  von  Stilen  wras  saved," 

[130] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

she  said;  "but  I  was  lost.  I  had  not  foreseen,  of 
course — :there  was  no  turning  back." 

"Nor  standing  still,"  Peggy  murmured. 

"You  see  that,  of  course — no  standing  still. 
He  came  every  day,  and  every  day  I  had  some 
new  favor  to  ask.  We  have  five  old  servants  in 
five  deserted  houses  in  the  city.  Their  owners 
are  friends,  safe  in  England;  and  soldiers  would 
be  billeted,  and  their  beautiful  things  ruined  and 
stolen  if  they  had  not  a  friend  at  court.  Other 
things  were  more  important — one  day  something 
very  important:  I  went  to  a  Belgian,  Monsieur 
Chartier,  and  told  him  of  the  night  when  five 
submarines  would  leave  Zeebrugge.  The  news 
was  with  the  British  Consul  at  Rotterdam  within 
twelve  hours." 

"Yes,  yes "   Peggy  stopped  brushing. 

"I  don't  know  what  happened,"  Yvonne  went 
on.  "One  never  does.  After  that  I  was  just 
plain  spy,  of  course.  My  Government  asked; 
that  was  enough." 

"Of  course!"  Peggy  was  plaiting  the  hair 
now. 

"My  king — yes,  I  have  had  a  message  from 
him.  He  knows."  She  lifted  her  head  proudly. 
"A  few  others  know.  All  the  rest  of  Belgium 
calls  me  traitor." 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"But  the  king,"  Peggy  cried,  "will  put  that 
right." 

"Yes."  She  added  with  a  mournful  pathos: 
"But  it  is  hard  to  wait.  Monsieur  and  Madame 
von  Stilen  cut  me  in  the  Avenue  to-day." 

"Oh!"  indignant  Peggy  panted. 

"Yes.  They  say  now  that  they  would  not  have 
accepted  his  liberty  at  my  hands  if  they  had 
known  I  was  so  shameless.  How  can  you  blame 
them?  I  cannot  defend  myself.  No  one  can 
defend  me.  I  must  flaunt  my  treachery.  The 
common  people  sometimes  say  vile  words  in  my 
ear.  A  woman  said:  'Only  the  street  women  and 
Mademoiselle  Duberges  speak  to  German  offi- 
cers." 

"There!"  Peggy  said,  patting  the  bows  she 
had  tied  on  the  two  plaits,  which  hung  below  the 
waist.  "Now  lie  down  on  the  sofa.  Yes;  that's 
it."  She  got  a  footstool  and  sat  by  Yvonne's 
side  and  held  her  hand.  "And  you  only  a  wisp  of 
a  girl !"  she  said. 

"I  was,  five  months  ago.  Intrigante  and  aven- 
turiere  now — hard  as  flint." 

Peggy  laughed. 

"You!  Oh,  yes;  flint — flint  for  your  country; 
but  all  tenderness  and  love  and  kindness  for  your 

[132] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

lucky  friends.    You  have  done  enough,  Yvonne; 
more  than  your  share." 

"I  am  a  political  person;  an  international  per- 
son," Yvonne  cried,  with  a  bitter  tang  in  her 
voice. 

"But,  of  course,  you  are!" 

"Oh,  I  mean  much  more  than  you  think.  Poor 
little  me — dragged  one  step  after  another;  not 
blind,  but  helpless.  I  am  part  of  German  pol- 
icy." She  pursed  up  her  lips  and  said,  with 
charming  childish  gaminerie:  "I  am  German 
propaganda  for  neutrals." 

Her  laugh  came  clear  as  a  little  bell.  Then 
she  sighed,  smiling,  and  pressed  Peggy's  hand. 

"It  is  so  delicious  to  have  you.  I  have  not 
laughed  like  that  since  July.  I  could  not  think 
how  Otto  had  such  power.  I  could  not  think  why 
I  never  asked  in  vain.  Well,  here's  the  reason. 
Monsieur  Chartier  told  me.  My  family  is  not 
unimportant.  My  father  was  of  the  bourgeoisie, 
but  he  was  very  rich  and  had  many  associations 
with  the  aristocracy.  My  mother  was  of  the 
court  and  of  a  distinguished  family.  Her  friends 
were  mostly  German.  It  was  so  with  many  of 
our  aristocracy.  My  father's  ships  were  every- 
where known.  His  name  in  commerce  was  world- 
spread.  Now  do  you  see?" 

[133] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"I  am  not  good  at  conundrums;  but  a  light 
glimmers." 

Yvonne  nodded. 

"Propaganda  for  Germans  too,"  she  said. 
"They  say  there  are  some  Germans  who  do  not 
approve  of  the  way  my  country  has  been  treated. 
But  a  marriage " 

Peggy  jumped  up. 

"Of  course!  Such  a  marriage  shows  how  kind 
and  affectionate  is  the  German  rule  in  Ant- 
werp." 

"Yes — to  Germans  and  to  the  United  States. 
That's  it.  The  Germans  have  conquered  by 
love." 

Peggy  was  startled.  She  had  not  thought  such 
bitter  irony  could  be  conveyed  in  a  human  voice. 

"I  cannot  put  him  off  any  longer,"  Yvonne 
continued;  "I  must  escape.  I  can  perhaps  get  a 
passport  to  go  with  you  for  a  week  at  The 
Hague." 

"Yes,  yes,"  Peggy  cried.    "Oh,  splendid!" 

Yvonne  rose  to  her  feet  and  stood  looking  up 
at  Peggy,  her  two  hands  resting  on  Peggy's 
arms. 

"But  it  is  necessary  to  tell  you,"  Yvonne 
murmured,  glancing  down:  "Monsieur  Geof- 
frey  " 

[134] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"Yes?"  Peggy  was  smiling  now. 

"He  did  me  a  great  honor;  but  I "  She 

shook  her  head. 

"You  refused  him?"  Peggy  demanded,  draw- 
ing back. 

"Ah,"  said  Yvonne,  "I  was  afraid  so."  She 
flung  up  her  hands  in  a  pathetic  little  hopeless 
gesture.  "I  do  not  love  him,"  she  confessed. 

Peggy,  astonished,  resentful,  had  a  sudden 
wild  suspicion.  Yvonne  read  it.  "You  saw  to- 
night," she  cried,  with  a  flaming  passion,  "what 
a  German  lover  can  do,  and  you  wonder  whether 
I  secretly  still  love  him.  The  wine  came  from  the 
altar  of  my  country  as  the  communion  wine  comes 
from  the  altar  of  God." 

She  broke  into  wild  sobbing  and  Peggy  held 
her  close. 


[135] 


VII 

Peggy  stood  alone  in  the  sun-flooded  salon, 
eying  the  button  on  the  wall,  which  she  had  twice 
stretched  out  a  finger  to  touch.  She  must  meet 
the  man.  She  must  have  an  understanding  with 
him  that  morning.  She  must  put  up  with  him, 
stand  by  him,  rely  partly  on  him,  whether  he  was 
what  he  seemed  to  be  or  proved  to  be  the  most 
objectionable  and  offensive  of  individuals.  The 
freedom,  perhaps  the  lives,  of  everybody  in  this 
house  hung  on  his  safety.  He  and  she  had  ar- 
rived in  a  crisis;  and  this  stranger  had  become 
the  pivot  on  which  all  depended.  The  long  war 
council  of  three  women  that  morning  had  made 
that  clear ;  had  made  it  clear  that  there  was  only 
one  path  of  escape.  Yvonne's  danger  was  great- 
est, Yvonne's  duty  was  hardest;  yet  the  Belgian 
girl  had  brilliantly  and  steadily  planned,  and 
that  wonderful  heartening  smile  and  glance  had 
not  once  failed  or  faltered.  Peggy,  with  high- 
held  head,  had  gallantly  accepted  her  part,  and 
had  never  dreamed  of  tremors  in  its  perform- 

[136] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

ance.  But  now  she  could  not  send  for  the  man, 
And  yet  there  could  be  no  turning  back. 

She  told  herself  that  she  was  acting  like  a 
child;  worse,  like  a  coward.  Was  he  "the  right 
sort"?  Quick  of  wit,  steady  nerved,  plucky;  but 
was  he  the  right  sort?  Her  brain  said  he  was. 
Her  heart  asked  how  she  could  know;  how  be 
certain  from  one  crowded  nightmare  hour.  All 
the  maidenhood  of  her  was  in  sudden,  fierce  re- 
volt. She  was  agitated  as  she  had  never  been 
before.  Her  heart  was  beating  fast.  Her  face 
was  flushed.  She  sat  down,  clasped  her  hands, 
shut  her  teeth,  and  fought  for  self-control.  This 
stranger  must  not  find  a  quaking  schoolgirl, 
stammering,  embarrassed.  She  jumped  up  as 
the  door  opened. 

"The  photographer,  madame,"  Clothilde  an- 
nounced. "The  best  light  is  in  this  room.  I  will 
tell  monsieur." 

Peggy  started  to  bolt,  checked  herself,  re- 
sponded mechanically  to  a  voluble  greeting,  and 
watched  a  hand  camera  drawn  from  a  basket 
filled  with  groceries.  Her  head  was  bent  and  an 
intently  listening  ear  seemed  to  catch  the  sound 
of  footsteps.  She  burst  into  a  flood  of  talk,  her 
utterance  doubly  rapid,  her  voice  pitched  high. 

At  her  first  word  the  airman,  outside  in  the 
[137] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

hall,  had  stopped  short.  The  emotion  of  fear, 
inherited  by  man,  produces  two  instinctive  im- 
pulses, also  part  of  man's  inheritance — one  to 
crouch  and  hide ;  the  other  to  fly.  Sometimes  the 
impulses  conflict  and  paralyze ;  and  thus  a  rabbit 
may  sit  up  motionless  and  accept  death.  Stone- 
man  had  faced  and  fought  four  enemy  machines 
without  a  quickened  pulse;  but  he  was  a  fright- 
ened rabbit  now  for  a  full  half  minute.  He  had 
expected  a  formal  summons,  time  to  prepare,  a 
grave  consultation;  and,  instead,  he  was  con- 
fronted with  a  casual,  accidental  meeting.  He 
had  imagined  a  troubled  and  anxious  girl,  piti- 
fully eager  to  escape  quickly  from  him  and  the 
humiliation  he  had  brought  her.  He  heard  a 
blithe,  eager  voice  pleasantly  chatting  about  neg- 
atives and  developing.  He,  too,  thought  of 
flight.  He,  too,  knew  that  there  could  be  no 
turning  back.  He  went  in,  a  fixed,  unnatural 
smile  on  his  lips,  a  glassy  stare  from  his  eyes. 

"Come  on!"  he  heard.  "We're  waiting  for 
•  you." 

He  nodded  in  the  direction  of  the  voice,  me- 
chanically shook  hands  with  the  photographer, 
stammered  a  greeting,  and  stood  stiffly,  staring 
at  the  camera. 

Peggy  became  instantly  more  mistress  of  her- 
[138] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GISL 

self.  He  was  more  embarrassed  than  she.  Her 
thought  flashed  to  his  fine  entering  of  the  hotel 
dining-room.  He  was  more  afraid  of  her  than  of 
a  hundred  German  officers.  If  only  he  was  Eng- 
lish! she  wished.  An  Englishman  of  the  right 
sort  would  not  be  embarrassed;  but  how  could 
she  tell  with  these  Americans? 

"There,  monsieur,  please!  No;  a  little  this 
way.  I  might  be  seen  from  without.  It  is  prison 
for  a  burgher  of  Antwerp  to  have  a  camera  in 
his  own  city." 

Peggy  did  not  hear,  for  she  was  eying  a  side 
face  with  tremulous  eagerness.  A  sudden  hot 
burst  of  antagonism  flamed  against  this  inter- 
loper, who  had  thrust  himself  so  intimately  into 
her  aloof,  fastidious  life.  She  looked  from  crit- 
ical, unfriendly  eyes;  but  they  honestly  told  her 
that  the  blurred,  whirling  impressions  of  the 
night  before  were  rightly  remembered.  He 
looked  "fairly  decent";  that  was  her  grudging 
verdict.  His  chin  swept  in  a  fine  strong  curve. 
What  if  it  jutted  like  Humbert  Honest's,  and 
his  eyes  were  a  horrid  sentimental  brown?  He 
might  be  worse,  much  worse.  She  dropped  her 
eyes  as  he  turned  for  a  second  position — a  super- 
fluous precaution,  for  he  never  looked  at  her. 

She  studied  him  again.  His  skin  was  clear 
[139] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

and  fresh.  He  looked  wholesome  and  vital.  She 
must  not  hate  him.  She  must  be  friendly.  She 
must  make  him  her  friend.  She  fought  her  re- 
sentment against  him.  The  photographer  had 
finished.  She  was  panic-stricken  again.  Re- 
member, she  was  only  twenty-three  years  old. 
She  forgot  her  plans,  her  opening  words.  She 
sat  silent  when  the  door  had  closed  behind  the 
photographer. 

She  heard  the  airman  coming  toward  her.  He 
was  speaking  in  jerks,  nervously. 

"From  my  mother — the  last  letter;  must  be 
burned,  of  course." 

He  was  standing  in  front  of  her  and  holding  it 
out. 

"From  your  mother!"  she  faltered. 
"But- 

He  thrust  it  into  her  hand. 

"Read  it,"  he  said  abruptly — "right  through. 
It's  the  only  thing  I  can  show  you.  The  best 
woman  I  know  trusts  me." 

He  turned,  crossed  the  room  and  looked  out 
of  the  window.  She  was  younger,  much  younger, 
than  he  had  thought ;  a  girl — no  more ;  and  pret- 
tier, far  prettier.  Englishwomen  kept  so  young; 
he  had  even  hoped  to  see  a  grey  hair  or  two  in 
the  daylight,  without  a  hat ;  her  finished  manner, 

[140] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

her  perfect  ease,  had  encouraged  that  hope.  Not 
a  line  in  her  face — not  a  crow's-foot;  smooth, 
vital,  young — so  young;  typical  English;  like 
some  of  the  apricots  in  his  mother's  garden  in 
Pasadena  just  when  they  begin  to  shade  from 
pink  to  crimson.  So  young,  and  caught  like  this, 
through  him! 

He  turned;  but  she  had  not  finished.  That 
was  good  of  her,  that  careful  slow  reading,  when 
she  was — the  letter  was  shaking  in  her  hands — 
nervous  and  unstrung.  Her  hair  was  ruddy  in 
the  bright  sunshine — lots  of  it,  noticeable, 
marked ;  not  a  head  to  slip  through  German  lines 
and  be  forgotten,  or  to  slip  out  of  complications 
without  consequences.  And  her  slim  figure — so 
young — marked,  too,  a  personality  individual; 
one  that  stamped  itself  on  memory. 

She  glanced  up.  Her  eyelids  moved  like  quick 
shutters.  It  might  have  been  the  sun — she  was 
looking  straight  at  the  window;  but  he  believed 
she  was  holding  back  tears.  Her  head  was  quick- 
ly bent  again,  and  she  was  reading  the  letter  over 
again.  That  was  fine  of  her !  No  nervous  skim- 
ming, no  pretence  at  reading;  that  was  a  real 
mother's  letter — a  mother's  heart.  She  would 
have  confidence  in  him  after  reading  that  letter 
twice  over  like  that.  Pretty  ?  Absurd !  She  was 

[141] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

beautiful — stamped,  unf orgetable !  Her  foot  and 
ankle  fine-boned;  the  foot  arched,  full  of  spring 
— just  as  she  was,  all  through. 

Stoneman  looked  her  over,  thus,  as  he  had 
never  before  inventoried  a  woman — impersonal- 
ly, detached.  He  had  a  dreadful  reason.  It  was 
that  which  had  unnerved  him.  He  had  only 
thought  of  it  an  hour  before.  If  they  were  de- 
tected and  held,  her  punishment  would  be  worse 
than  imprisonment  or  death.  No  woman  travel- 
ling under  a  passport  that  falsely  described  her 
as  a  wife  would  be  respected  by  the  Germans, 
Stoneman  knew.  And  he  found  her  young  and 
beautiful,  and  brimming  with  energy  and  health. 
His  anxiety  was  profoundly  increased;  but  per- 
fect self-mastery  was  restored.  He  went  to  a  seat 
by  her  side  as  she  turned  the  last  page. 

"It's  easy  for  me  now.  Thank  you."  Her 
voice  was  not  quite  steady.  "I'm  more  proud 
and  glad  than  ever,"  she  continued,  "that  you 
spoke  to  me  last  night.  Have  they  wired  yet, 
do  you  suppose,  that  you  haven't  come  back? 
How  awful  for  her!  But  your  message — that 
will  go  as  soon  as  we  get  across.  And  how  happy 
she  will  be!" 

"Perhaps  to-morrow  evening,  from  Rozen- 
[  142  ] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

daal!"  he  cried  quickly.     "We  can  get  out  to- 
morrow, can't  we?" 

She  glanced  at  him,  smiled,  and  shook  her  head. 

"Madame  Campion  says  not.  She  tells  me, 
too,  that  I  could  never  have  got  a  pass  without 
a  husband" — she  never  flinched  as  she  said  the 
word — "unless  the  American  Legation  at  Brus- 
sels explained  his  absence.  I  couldn't  go  there. 
They'd  make  me  wait,  she  says,  until  they  proved 
my  story.  I  couldn't  prove  it,  and  my  passport 
would  be  forfeited.  You  see,  you  are  as  neces- 
sary  to  me  as  I  am  to  you.  We're  partners." 

He  nodded,  calm,  offhandedly,  just  as  she 
would  have  it;  but  he  was  not  acting.  He  was 
precisely  as  he  would  be  in  going  over  his  machine 
with  his  mechanic  before  a  flight — alert,  concen- 
trated, detached.  Her  unselfish  thought  for  his 
mother ;  her  consideration  for  him,  in  pretending 
that  he  was  as  necessary  to  her  as  she  to  him, 
were  impressions  stored  away  to  be  felt  and  ap- 
preciated later. 

"Geoffrey  and  I  are  twins,"  she  continued — 
"twins  and  pals.  And  his  friends  have  been 
mine;  jolly  good  friends,  some  of  them.  And 
a  girl  with  that  bringing-up — we  were  nine  when 
father  and  mother  died — she's  different,  isn't 
she?" 

[143] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

She  was  at  absolute  ease,  friendly,  companion- 
able; plans  and  conditions  forgotten;  just  talk- 
ing as  she  felt  to  a  man  whose  mother  could  write 
to  him  like  that. 

"I  like  you,"  she  continued,  looking  frankly 
at  him.  "I  did  last  night.  I  do  more  now.  I 
can  give  friendship." 

His  eyes  answered.  She  felt  their  quiet  force, 
as  she  had  the  night  before.  She  leaned  back, 
relaxed,  comfortably  resting  after  supreme  ten- 
sion. 

"I  am  very  curious,"  she  said.  "Tell  me  how 
you  got  here,  and  why." 

He  protested,  surprised.  There  were  plans, 
vital  plans,  to  be  made. 

"There's  plenty  of  time,"  she  said.  She  would 
have  his  story. 

He  rushed  through  it,  speaking  twice  as  fast 
as  usual,  inwardly  impatient. 

"Everything  was  lucky  till  the  job  was  done," 
he  said.  "A  good  job.  A  new  Zeppelin,  not 
there  two  weeks.  Oh,  it  shot  up  like  a  volcano! 
Then — quick — a  half  gale  from  the  southeast, 
and  a  blinding  drizzle,  half  rain,  half  sleet.  En- 
gine stopped ;  blown  miles  in  half  minutes ;  lucky 
landing;  machine  smashed;  no  harm  to  me.  No 
one  about;  but  I  ran.  I  never  ran  so  fast,  I 

[144] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

reckon.  A  good  road,  leading  north.  I  could 
see  the  stars  now.  Just  a  chance,  you  see ;  friend- 
ly Belgians,  if  luck  served,  and  into  Holland  by 
the  underground.  I  never  met  or  saw  a  soul. 
Dead,  deserted  country;  shuttered  houses,  black, 
gaunt,  ghostly.  A  river — I  was  done!  All 
bridges  guarded,  of  course " 

"Yes,  yes,  go  on,"  she  murmured  as  he  paused 
breathless. 

He  took  a  deep  breath  and  ran  on: 

"Skirted  banks  for  boat;  none.  Got  chilled,  of 
course.  Slipped  back  to  a  big  house  and  burgled 
the  second  story " 

"The  second  story?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  of  course,  you  English  call  it  the  first 
floor.  Anyway,  I  climbed  the  porch  and  forced 
the  shutters.  Searched  for  food — not  a  scrap; 
but  clothes,  perhaps.  Forced  a  chest  at  last  in  a 

likely  bedroom.  A  fur  coat Don't  look 

startled.  I  have  the  address,  and  the  thermome- 
ter marked  twenty-two  in  the  hall.  I  saw  it. 
And  varnished  boots,  pointed,  narrow ;  but  mine 
would  have  given  me  away.  And  a  hat — oh,  a 
monstrous  head;  but  I  put  paper  in  the  lining. 
Then  off  again. 

"I  walked  that  river  bank — canalized,  you  see, 
with  a  towing-path — until  it  was  nearly  light. 

[145] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

The  Rupel.  I  knew  where  I  was  now — from 
memory  of  the  map;  and  before  long  I  should 
come  to  the  Scheldt.  I  popped  into  a  canal-boat, 
slipped  down  a  hatchway  and  hid,  half  standing, 
in  a  cubbyhole.  I  heard  the  family  snoring.  Of 
course  I  should  be  found ;  but  you  never  know — 
I  wasn't.  We  wrere  in  Antwerp  by  three  o'clock." 

"And  you  stood,  cramped,  in  tight  patent 
leathers,  for  seven  or  eight  hours?" 

"Forgot  it  quickly,"  he  answered,  "when  I 
walked  ashore,  later.  The  coat  did  it,  of  course, 
and  my  American  accent.  The  dock  guards  no 
doubt  took  me  for  one  of  the  agents  of  the  Re- 
lief Commission.  Their  boats  come  there.  One 
of  those  lucky  chances.  Happens  sometimes.  It 
was  nearly  dusk  and  I  went  straight  to  the  light- 
est street  and  looked  for  the  friendliest  face.  I£ 
was  yours.  Voila!  Now  about  your  plans?" 

Peggy  stared  at  him. 

"And  you  carried  off  that  dinner  after  that?" 
she  breathed. 

"If  you'd  only  known  how  hungry  I  was! 
That's  history.  The  future- 

"Yes,  the  future,"  she  mocked  pleasantly; 
"there's  a  lot  to  be  said  for  it.  I  have  a  story  too. 
Oh,  nothing  so  wonderful  as  yours ;  but  there  was 
a  fur  coat  and  an  American  accent  in  it  too." 

[146] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

She  told  it  well  and  with  a  purpose.  A  friend, 
a  trusted  friend  of  her  brother  and  herself,  had 
posed  as  husband.  That  fact,  incidentally  and 
casually  brought  out,  would  show  him,  she 
thought,  how  wartime  and  war  needs  had  changed 
all  standards  and  permitted  many  things.  Its 
only  effect  was  to  bring  secret  abuse  of  this  Jack 
Daintry,  who  had  helped  to  such  a  folly;  but  she 
did  not  know  that.  She  brought  in  the  mothers 
of  the  children,  too,  and  her  pledges,  and  their 
anxieties. 

He  listened  calmly,  perceiving  her  drift,  deep- 
ly concerned  about  her  blind  courage ;  preparing 
for  a  clash  of  wills.  Madness  for  her  to  cross  half 
of  Belgium !  She  should  not  go  to  that  convent. 
When  she  had  finished  he  told  her  so  bluntly. 

She  bent  forward,  very  grave,  her  eyes  fixed 
on  his. 

"Others  could  get  the  children,"  she  said. 
"That  isn't  it.  But  we  dare  not  change  our  plans. 
We  dare  not  seem  to  hurry  out  of  Belgium." 

"You  hurry  out,"  he  interrupted.  "I'll  stay 
and  get  the  children." 

"And  your  passport?"  she  questioned. 

"I'll  take  ours  to  the  Consulate  and  get  a  sep- 
arate one." 

"You  know  you  can't,"  she  answered.  "You 
[147] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

cannot  tell  the  truth,  for  you  would  be  refused 
one  because  you  have  fought  for  another  coun- 
try. You  cannot  deceive  them,  for  you  can't 
prove  how  you  entered  Belgium." 

"How  do  you  know  all  this?"  he  said. 

"Madame  Campion — she  has  it  all.  There  is 
an  underground  line  here  too.  That  photog- 
rapher, the  engraver  who  is  going  to  imitate  the 
seal,  they're  all  in  it." 

"I  can  take  this  route,  or  the  other  under  the 
live  wire." 

"You  could,  perhaps.    You  might  get  through. 

But    your     disappearance What    about 

madame  and  Yvonne?" 

He  nodded,  beaten.  The  safety  of  all  de- 
pended on  his  getting  away  openly. 

"Their  position  is  desperate,"  she  continued. 
"They  are  going  to  the  convent  with  us." 

"Us?"  he  broke  in,  startled. 

"We've  talked  it  over,"  she  said,  "and  we  all 
think  that  safest.  You  cannot  stay  in  Antwerp, 
madame  says.  Any  foreigner  is  a  marked  man 
here.  You  can't  go  near  the  Relief  Commission 
or  your  own  officials.  That  would  be  noticed 
immediately.  They  would  have  you  up." 

"I  will  mix  with  the  commission  fellows,"  he 
said. 

[  148  ] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"Think!"  she  said  gently.  His  eyes  dropped 
before  hers.  "You  know  you  wouldn't,"  she 
pursued.  "The  man  who  bombed  this  new  aero- 
drome, who  destroyed  their  new  Zeppelin,  who 
was  their  guest  at  dinner  the  next  night,  pro- 
tected by  the  commission,  even  innocently 

What  would  happen  to  the  commission?" 

"I  give  in,"  he  said. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  with  an  accent  of  re- 
lief. "It's  hard  for  you,  perhaps,  to  let  Madame 
Campion  do  all  the  planning;  but  she's  had 
months  of  experience."  She  flung  up  her  hands. 
"The  things  she's  been  through — and  Yvonne! 
Our  troubles  are  slight.  We  get  passes  to-mor- 
row. We  leave  on  Saturday  morning.  Sunday 
at  Brussels." 

"A  day  lost.    Why?" 

"To  keep  the  lieutenant  in  good  humor,"  she 
said,  smiling.  "He  is  coming  to  lunch  here,  re- 
member." She  glanced  at  her  wrist  watch.  "And 
to-day,  too,  perhaps.  You  see,  we  had  to  break 
an  appointment,  as  the  passport  wasn't  ready; 
and  so  he  must  be  invited.  If  he  comes,  you — I'm 
afraid  it's  necessary" — she  smiled  at  him — "must 
be  ill.  He  might  ask  for  your  papers,  just  to  see 
how  he  could  help  you  best." 

"I  shall  be  ill."  ' 

[149] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"Now  you  see  what  we  must  do,"  she  said,  with 
grave  friendliness.  "You  and  I  have  to  travel 
for  several  days  in  a  family  party — well,  under 
difficulties.  And  the  slightest  mistake,  the  least 
hesitation " 

"Yes;  of  course." 

"Well,  we  must  be  the  same  always;  now,  in- 
doors, outdoors;  always  the  same — just  ourselves, 
matural,  friends." 

"That  is  the  only  way." 

"It's  Peggy  and  Monty,  then.  .  .  .  Now 
Yvonne  and  I  are  going  shopping  this  afternoon. 
You  must  be  perdu,,  madame  insists,  until  the 
papers  are  ready.  You  make  a  list  of  the  things 
you  need — and  please,  Monty,  give  me  some 
francs." 

Her  handbag  lay  between  them.  She  pushed 
it  toward  him.  He  opened  it,  without  a  word. 
A  great  roll  of  bills  lay  inside.  He  took  it  out 
and  saw  some  German  money. 

"You'd  better  have  some  marks  too,"  he  said 
•almly. 

"If  you  think  I'll  need  them." 

"Five  hundred  of  each,"  he  said,  counting 
them  out.  "Can  you  make  that  do?" 

"Oh,  yes — that  is,  if  your  list  is  short." 

"Want  your  handbag?" 
[150] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"Of  course!" 

He  put  the  roll  of  bills  into  his  pocket. 

"Don't  forget  a  pocketbook,"  he  said;  "large, 
with  a  strap.  I  can't  carry  this  stuff  loose." 

"I'll  remember."  She  rose.  "You've  made 
it  very  easy  for  me,"  she  said  gratefully. 

"Easy!  For  you?"  he  cried  eagerly,  thunder- 
struck at  such  humility  after  the  courtly  splen- 
dor of  her  consideration  for  him.  "I " 

"Now,  now,  old  boy!"  she  gibed,  as  she  moved 
toward  the  door.  "Have  your  list  ready.  .  .  . 
Oh,  I  forgot  something!"  He  came  over  and 
stood  facing  her.  "I've  learned  a  lot  this  morn- 
ing," she  said.  "They  never  let  themselves  down 
i — these  two.  Yvonne  did,  last  night;  and  iff 
done  her  a  world  of  good.  But  it's  the  first  time, 
she  says.  They  keep  smiling  even  when  they're 
alone.  They  seem  to  frivol  sometimes.  Now 
we  are  going  to  see  lots  of  things  that'll  hit  us 
hard;  and " 

"I  get  you,  Peggy,"  he  interrupted — "Hard 
neutral  hearts  until  we  are  across  the  border. 
Alone  or  together,  with  friends  or  enemies,  just 
surface  and  smiles." 

"You  have  it  to  a  T,"  she  said.  Then  sudden- 
ly her  manner  changed.  She  held  out  her  hand 
and  he  grasped  it.  "Geoff  will  like  you,"  she 

[151] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

said,  with  a  catch  in  her  breath.  "Dear  old 
Geoff!  He  always  likes  my  friends."  Then  she 
turned  and  went  out. 

He  picked  up  his  mother's  letter  and  went 
slowly,  with  bent  head,  to  his  room.  Peggy 
thought  she  had  taught  him  friendship.  She  had 
taught  him  love. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  opened  his  door  to  a 
flushed  and  angry  Clothilde.  Her  words  buzzed 
out  with  r's  rolling  like  a  drum. 

"Monsieur  will  please  come  to  dejeuner"  she 
said. 

"The  Herr  Leutnant  has  not  come,  then?"  he 
asked. 

"No,  monsieur;  he  has  not  come,"  Clothilde  ex- 
ploded. "He  has  sent  a  brother  officer;  but 
monsieur  is  to  come,  all  the  same.  Oh,  le  cliien 
canaille!" 

"Officer,  Clothilde?" 

"Monsieur  will  see."    She  turned  on  her  heel. 

He  went  to  the  door  of  the  salon  and  stood 
on  the  threshold  watching  three  absorbed  women 
who  silently  stared  at  a  basket  on  the  table.  In 
it,  on  a  blue  silk  cushion,  stood  a  silent,  inquisi- 
tive toy  terrier.  It  wore  a  coat — it  was  shaped 
and  fitted  and  must  be  called  a  coat — of  German 
grey,  bound  and  piped  with  mauve.  The  mauve 

[152] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

was  of  the  precise  shade  of  the  collar  of  Leutnant 
von  Schmiedell's  uniform. 

Stoneman  burst  into  irresistible  laughter. 
Three  women  turned  challenging  heads  and 
glowered.  Peggy  caught  the  infection  first ;  and 
then  came  such  a  burst  of  merriment  as  that 
house  had  not  heard  in  many  a  month. 

"It's  not  the  dog's  fault,"  said  Peggy,  "that 
he  was  born  in  Berlin." 

"Monsieur  Geoffrey,"  Yvonne  murmured, 
"was  fond  of  all  dogs."  She  caressed  the  tiny 
intelligent  head,  while  Peggy  eyed  her. 

"A  little  gift,"  madame  said,  pointing  to  a 
note  on  the  table.  "Ah,  the  beautiful,  the  deli- 
cate tact !  And  his  name " 

"To  be  perfect,"  the  airman  said,  "it  should 
be  Kaiser." 

The  dog  yapped.  Stoneman  looked  incredu- 
lously from  one  silent  girl  to  the  other;  but  he 
had  guessed  right. 

"Madame  est  servie"  Clothilde  announced 
from  the  door. 

They  went  into  the  breakfast-room,  the  dog 
dancing  about  and  tinkling  a  sleigh-bell  on  his 
collar.  An  incredible  meal,  gay  to  frivolity,  with 
easy  laughter  at  little  things,  light  badinage, 
frivolous  chatter;  Peggy's  spirits  bounded,  after 

[153] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

a  dreaded  task  had  ended  so  well ;  Yvonne  had  at 
last  a  friend  and  confidante;  the  lieutenant  had 
not  come  and  there  was  hope  of  escape ;  she,  too, 
had  reason  for  joy.  Madame  gaily  explained 
the  extraordinary  meal.  Stoneman  had  never 
seen,  even  at  a  banquet,  such  a  profusion  of  hors 
d'ceuvres — anchovies,  sardines,  lax,  caviar,  pate 
de  f oie  gras. 

"Eat  as  much  of  these  as  you  dare,"  she  chal- 
lenged him.  "They  are  from  our  storeroom — 
from  before  the  war.  There  is  only  macaroni  au 
gratin  to  follow." 

They  pressed  him  for  homely  details.  He 
gave  himself  once  again  a  clean  bill  of  health — 
no  sprains,  no  cuts;  livid  bruises  on  his  leg,  but 
nothing  serious — no  doctor  needed,  no  bandages, 
no  lotions.  Had  he  found  the  new  toothbrush? 
Madame  had  forgotten  to  mention  it.  Yes,  that 
and  everything  necessary.  He  had  not  had  such 
a  bed  in  months;  it  was  like  heaven!  He  pro- 
claimed himself  in  the  pink. 

After  the  meal  Madame  Campion  appeared 
in  a  long  housemaid's  apron,  and  she  wore  on 
her  stately  head  a  blue  silk  bandanna.  Mon- 
sieur must  help  her  to  pack.  There  were  still 
beautiful  things  in  the  house,  and  perhaps  these 
would  not  be  smashed  to  bits  by  the  German  sol- 

[154] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

diers.  If  they  all  got  safely  to  Holland,  soldiers 
would  be  billeted  there.  There  was  little  hope  of 
saving  anything,  as  Germans  were  like  naughty 
passionate  children.  In  a  temper  they  broke  up 
toys. 

She  hummed  the  Braban9onne  as  she  worked. 
She  teased  her  admiring  helper  about  the  won- 
derful inventions  of  his  memory.  She  shrugged 
her  shoulders  as  she  left  a  large  Rubens  to  its 
fate.  Indomitable  old  lady,  she  showed  him  a 
great  box  of  old  lace,  inherited,  as  dear  to  her 
as  it  had  been  to  her  grandmother.  The  little 
terrier  jumped  into  the  box  and  nestled  down. 

"A  true  German!"  she  said,  laughing.  "They 
will  wipe  their  boots  with  it." 

At  four  she  brought  the  passport. 

"Voila,  monsieur!"  she  said.  "They  will  pass 
the  store  we  met  in  front  of  at  half -past  four. 
If  you  are  there  they  will  accept  the  lieutenant's 
invitation  to  tea.  They  cannot  arrive  at  the 
hotel  alone.  It  is  well  that  he  should  not  be  twice 
disappointed  in  one  day.  Vite,  monsieur!  Vite!" 

"There  is  plenty  of  time,"  he  said,  glancing  at 
a  clock. 

"You  forget,"  she  answered.  "When  a  Ger- 
man writes  it  is  German  time — an  hour  earlier." 

He  was  there  at  the  hour  named;  but  they 
[155] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

did  not  come.  Stoneman  wandered  up  and  down, 
watching  the  crowds  in  the  gathering  dusk, 
thinking  of  that  meeting  the  night  before ;  grow- 
ing anxious,  of  course.  He  saw  people  stop. 
He  saw  Germans  straighten  and  smile,  Belgians 
bend  forward  with  saddened  eyes.  Two  Ger- 
man soldiers  marched  by  in  the  street,  one  be- 
hind the  other,  and  at  the  right  hand  of  the  first, 
who  carried  his  rifle  on  his  shoulder,  bayonet 
fixed,  walked  a  civilian. 

"Poor  devil!  Under  military  arrest — here  in 
Antwerp!"  Stoneman's  eyes  were  as  the  Bel- 
gians'; but  the  expression  changed  as  conviction 
came  that  he  knew  the  man.  He  racked  his  mem- 
ory. "He  sold  me  a  car  in  New  York.  Honest! 
Humber  Honest!  Poor  devil!" 

Down  the  avenue,  a  hundred  yards  away, 
Peggy  and  Yvonne  were  walking  with  Oberleut- 
nant  von  Bahrheit,  who  had  just  joined  them. 

"We  are  scandalously  late,"  said  Yvonne, 
smiling;  "but  I  got  confused,  as  I  always  do.  It 
is  your  dreadful  German  time." 

"Where  Germans  rule,  mademoiselle,"  he 
said,  "it  is  German  time." 

"Oh,  of  course!"  Peggy  bantered.  "We  know 
the  sun  rises  and  sets  at  Potsdam." 

[156] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

Then  Humbert  Honest  was  led  past,  chin 
flung  out,  looking  straight  ahead. 

Peggy  saw,  paused,  stared ;  then  added  a  quick, 
dangerous  gibe: 

''But  you  have  yet  to  make  your  place  in  it, 
Herr  Oberleutnant." 

"Even  Yankee  guns  and  munitions  shall  not 
prevent  that,  madame." 

"I  was  stupid!"  Yvonne  cried  quickly.  "The 
lieutenant's  note  said  half  past  four." 

"And  you  thought  a  German  officer  would 
make  an  appointment  by  German  time?" 

"What  I  forgot,  Herr  Oberleutnant,"  Yvonne 
said,  with  her  disarming  smile,  "was  that  Ger- 
mans are  always  an  hour  in  front  of  the  rest  of 
the  world.  Isn't  that  so,  Peggy?" 

Peggy  nodded  as  though  she  heard. 

Humbert  Honest,  so  straight  about  passports, 
so  careful  about  his  neutrality,  must  have  been 
arrested  for  helping  her.  Such  was  Peggy's 
conviction.  ••  The  Germans  had  discovered  that 
no  husband  of  hers  had  left  The  Hague  for 
Brussels. 

"Oh,  Monty!"  she  cried.  "Sorry  we're  late. 
Mr.  Fargo — Herr  Oberleutnant  von  Bahrheit." 

"Glad  to  meet  you,  Herr  Oberleutnant." 

"The  honor  is  mine,  Herr  Fargo." 
[157] 


VIII 

Yvonne  Duberges,  sipping  coffee  at  this  after- 
noon tea,  glanced  sidewise  at  Herr  Leutnant  von 
Schmiedell,  as  he  murmured :  " Je  t'aime!"  Her 
bowed  lips  moved  almost  imperceptibly,  as 
though  she  was  saying  the  same  words.  He  was 
demonstrative,  more  openly  in  love  than  he  had 
ever  been  in  public  before.  His  manner  was  pos- 
sessory; in  effect,  it  announced  an  engagement. 
He  looked  about  the  room,  much  brighter  than 
that  of  the  hotel  where  they  had  dined  the  night 
before,  and  nodded  joyously  to  brother  officers 
he  knew,  who  smiled  in  return,  with  significant 
glances  at  Yvonne.  But  she  did  not  glance 
about. 

A  few  Belgian  ladies  were  there,  most  of 
them  in  mourning.  Sombre-eyed,  they  watched 
this  table,  waiting  for  a  chance  to  stare  unwink- 
ing at  this  one-time  friend;  but  she  did  not  give 
them  the  chance.  Her  eyes  seemed  only  for  the 
lieutenant.  Intent  watchers  were  sure  now  that 
the  impossible  was  to  happen — a  German  officer 
and  a  Belgian  girl  were  going  to  be  married. 

[158] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

They  were  flaunting  their  happiness,  the  Ger- 
man officers  thought.  She  was  flaunting  her 
shame,  the  Belgian  ladies  agreed. 

The  watchers  were  premature.  At  the  dinner 
the  night  before  Yvonne  had  perceived  a  chance, 
the  first  that  had  come,  of  escape  from  Belgium. 
She  had  seized  it  with  the  courage  of  despair. 
She  might,  perhaps,  secure  a  pass  to  accompany 
her  friend,  Madame  Fargo,  for  a  week's  visit  at 
The  Hague,  accompanied  by  her  aunt  and  Clo- 
thilde,  who  could  not  be  left  to  the  bitter  punish- 
ment which  must  follow  when  it  was  found  that 
Yvonne  did  not  return.  That  was  the  trouble — 
a  passport  for  three;  and  the  plan  had  matured 
as  the  dinner  progressed.  There  was  one  reason, 
one  only,  why  her  aunt  and  herself  should  go 
— to  buy  a  trousseau.  That  was  why  she  had 
lingered  on  her  doorstep  the  night  before,  mur- 
muring intoxicating  words  which  had  trans- 
formed Brussels  into  a  gilded  city  of  hope  to  the 
ardent  young  officer. 

He  had  left  her,  assured  that  at  last  she  would 
surrender.  Sweet,  elusive  Yvonne,  with  her 
charming  fads  and  naive  fancies  and  quaint 
moods,  would  capitulate  at  Brussels.  The  treaty 
would  be  signed  there,  in  the  gay  little  capital 
where  he  and  she  and  Jaques  had  had  such  jolly 

[159] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

times.  He  had  laughed,  as  he  had  driven  away, 
that  he  thought  of  love  in  terms  of  war;  the 
treaty  would  be  signed  and  sealed  with  a  kiss. 
He  had  never  kissed  her  adorable  lips;  he  had 
been  on  fire  at  the  thought. 

Brussels  had  rung  in  his  ear  all  day,  was 
ringing  now  at  this  little  tea  party ;  and  his  eager 
proffer  of  aid  with  passes  is  easily  to  be  under- 
stood. He  did  not  notice  that  Peggy  was  a  lit- 
tle distrait;  that  Monsieur  Fargo  was  rather 
quiet. 

Peggy  expected  immediate  arrest.  If  Hum- 
bert Honest  had  been  apprehended  for  indorsing 
her  at  the  Rotterdam  Consulate — and  what  other 
fault  could  a  man  so  scrupulous  about  passports 
have  committed? — they  were  searching  for  her 
now.  The  airman  was  covertly  watching  her  with 
eyes  that  confessed  his  solicitude;  for  he,  too, 
had  reason  to  fear  detection.  Though  this  man 
who  knew  him,  and  probably  knew  that  he  had 
joined  the  French  Flying  Corps,  was  under  ar- 
rest, yet  that  might  be  temporary  and  they  might 
meet. 

Stoneman,  deeply  anxious  about  Peggy,  fol- 
lowed her  suddenly  widened  eyes  to  find  himself 
looking  straight  at  Humbert  Honest,  who  stoodi* 
with  mouth  agape,  staring  at  him. 

[160] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"Monty!"  Peggy  cried  sharply.  "Our  old 
friend,  Humbert  Honest!  What  a  surprise!" 

Humbert  Honest,  who  had  not  seen  her,  start- 
ed at  the  sound  of  her  voice,  grinned  mechanical- 
ly, and  thrust  out  a  hand  to  Stoneman. 

''Well,"  he  cried,  "if  this  don't  beat  the  world! 
How  are  you,  old  son?  When  did  you  cross? 
And  how  are  all  the  folks  at  home?" 

Stoneman  rose  and  seized  the  offered  hand. 

"Honest,  I'm  glad  to  see  you,"  he  said,  with 
his  usual  deliberation.  "I  hope  you  are  well." 

"My  husband,"  came  Peggy's  clear  voice,  "is 
always  glad  to  see  you." 

Humbert  glanced  from  one  to  the  other,  try- 
ing to  behave  naturally  but  obviously  nervous 
and  excited.  He  pulled  Peggy's  arm  up  and 
down  as  though  it  was  a  pump  handle.  "Glad 
to  see  you.  Mighty  glad!"  he  said.  "And  how 
are  things  in  Kankakee?" 

"The  oranges  are  blossoming,"  Peggy  said. 

He  laughed  uproariously,  much  too  loudly; 
altogether  a  most  difficult  acquaintance  at  such 
a  moment.  Introduced  to  the  lieutenant,  who 
found  his  surprise  at  meeting  American  friends 
most  natural,  he  became  instantly  pugnacious. 

"I'm  dead  sore  on  you  Germans,  Herr  Leut- 
[161] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIXL 

nant,"  he  said  as  he  accepted  an  invitation  to  sit 
down. 

His  prognathous  jaw  was  thrust  outward  and 
his  big  brown  eyes  were  flashing  as  he  flung  a 
silky  square  of  paper  on  the  table  and  pointed  to 
its  spidery  shorthand  marks.  It  was  a  letter 
from  Constantinople,  he  explained,  written  in 
Turkish,  which  he  had  received  that  morning.  It 
was  about  his  automobiles  there;  perfectly  inno- 
cent, of  course — only  a  fool  would  carry  explo- 
sive stuff  openly  like  that;  yet  the  tin-horn  fak- 
ers at  the  Station  Centrale  had  marched  him  un- 
der guard  through  all  Antwerp  to  Lazard,  head 
of  the  Secret  Service. 

"The  beggar  knows  me,"  Honest  flamed  in- 
dignantly, "yet  he  made  me  translate  it  word  by 
word.  I  told  him  how  they'd  lemonaded  a  man 
well  known  in  Antwerp  down  the  boulevards. 
Sympathy  from  him?  An  apology?  Nix!  That 
got  my  goat.  I  told  him  I  was  an  older  resident 
of  Antwerp  than  he  was  and  would  be  here  when 
he  was  gone." 

The  lieutenant  listened,  with  a  smile.  He  dis- 
liked Oberleutnant  Lazard,  who  was  only  a  pro- 
fessor turned  soldier,  not  a  gentleman.  Honest, 
simmering  down,  broke  into  a  broad  grin. 

"I  got  what  was  coming  to  me,  all  right,"  he 
[162] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

continued.  "The  laugh  is  on  me.  He  said  he'd 
prove  I  was  wrong.  I  am  under  arrest  in  this 
hotel  and  have  to  go  out  to-morrow.  He  won !" 

The  lieutenant  flung  back  his  head  and  roared 
with  laughter. 

"Yes;  he  won!"  he  exclaimed.  "But,  I  say, 
you're  a  good  loser." 

Honest  grinned  again. 

"Nothing  left  to  lose,"  he  said;  "y°u  fellows 
have  taken  my  last  automobile." 

"In  a  good  cause,  my  dear  fellow.  Tea,  coffee, 
Whisky?" 

"Coffee  for  mine — thanks!  I  say,  Herr  Leut- 
nant,  must  I  stay  in  this  hotel?" 

"For  your  own  sake,  dear  boy,"  the  lieutenant 
said  genially;  "you  have  a  free  tongue." 

"And  wouldn't  you  just  up  and  howl  if  you 
were  a  neutral  and  all  your  cars  were  stolen?" 

A  hard  glint  came  into  the  lieutenant's  eyes. 

"Madame  Fargo,"  he  said,  "your  friend  comes, 
I  think,  from  the  free  and  boundless  West,  where 
bluntness  is  perhaps  an  exaggerated  virtue." 

Humbert  Honest,  scowling,  became  silent.  He 
sipped,  watched  and  wondered.  This  was  a  Mid- 
summer Night's  Dream  to  him,  mad,  incompre- 
hensible; and  his  reflections  were  something  like 
this :  A  German  officer,  plumb  daffy  over  a  beau- 

[163] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

tiful,  speaking  Belgian  doll,  with  real  hair  like 
his  grandmother's,  eyes  like  a  Madonna's,  and  a 
smile  that  would  warm  a  polar  bear — and  she 
daffy  over  him  in  return;  an  American,  in  the 
French  Flying  Corps,  wearing  mufti  and  an  as- 
sumed name,  dropping  in  for  afternoon  tea  with 
the  enemy ;  his  English  wife,  with  an  angel's  hair, 
pep  in  her  starry  eyes,  punch  in  her  sweet  Eng- 
lish voice,  and  the  nerve  of  the  devil  inside  her 
brilliant  skin,  drifting  in  to  join  her  husband  in 
this  little  innocent  talkfest. 

Honest  was  the  more  bewildered  the  longer  he 
sat.  These  were  dangerous  folk  to  meddle  with; 
he  was  glad  that  he  was  to  be  off  in  the  morning. 
Mrs.  Stoneman  had  fooled  him,  after  all;  had 
turned  him  inside  out,  and  yet  had  been  abso- 
lutely truthful.  She  had  omitted  to  mention  the 
trifling  fact  that  her  American  husband  was  in 
the  French  service — that  was  all;  but  rather  an 
important  item,  all  things  considered.  He  looked 
glum  reproach;  but  when  he  caught  her  eye 
he  grinned.  It  was  funny  after  all.  She  had 
won  too;  he  had  been  done  all  the  way  round; 
yes,  even  about  the  diamonds.  He  was  not  free 
to  get  them  for  the  Brazilian. 

At  the  final  parting,  and  he  was  glad  when  it 
came,  he  looked  with  meaning  at  her  and  said: 
[164] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"I  should  have  liked  another  look  round  the 
town,  another  squint  at  the  shell-shocked  she- 
bangs." He  did  not  know  whether  she  under- 
stood this  hint  about  the  diamonds  or  not.  It 
was  not  a  good  time  for  confidential  glances  and 
whispers.  "We  shall  soon  meet  in  Rotterdam," 
he  added. 

"I  hope  so,"  Peggy  answered.  "I  want  to  ex- 
plain a  good  many  things,"  she  murmured, 
smiling. 

"They  need  it,"  he  answered,  flinging  out  his 
chin. 

They  were  prompt  at  the  commander's  office 
the  next  day;  a  protected  party  of  four,  with  a 
German  private  at  the  head  roughly  forcing  a 
way  for  them  through  a  jostling  throng.  These 
were  poor  Belgians  who  must  struggle  for  hours 
and  pay  five  francs  for  a  permit  to  travel  in  their 
own  country;  and  their  eyes  sullenly  followed 
these  two  countrywomen  in  black.  Peggy  heard 
muttered  words  in  Flemish,  and  she  saw  that 
Yyonne's  downbent  face  was  flushed  and  that 
madame's  head  was  even  more  haughtily  erect 
than  usual.  One,  two  hours  they  waited  in  the 
lieutenant's  private  office  while  their  papers  were 
being  prepared  without ;  even  influence  could  not 
more  than  halve  the  usual  delay.  Perspiring 

[  165  ] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

clerks  came  and  went ;  bells  rung ;  officers  hustled 
in  and  out.  The  passport  finally  came  back  with 
a  memorandum  in  German:  "Appears  to  be  in 
order,  but  no  indorsement  showing  how  Herr 
Fargo  left  London  for  Holland  or  how  he  ar- 
rived in  Belgium." 

That  was  expected — a  relief.  The  false  im- 
pression of  the  seal  on  his  photograph,  made  by 
hand,  minute  stroke  by  stroke,  had  not  been  de- 
tected. Answer  went  back:  "American  journal- 
ist. Left  London  before  wife  on  Home  Office 
permit.  Left  The  Hague  before  wife  in  auto, 
with  Dutch  notary's  declaration  and  special  let- 
ter from  German  Legation.  Permit  from  Gen- 
eral Headquarters,  Brussels,  for  Antwerp.  Care- 
lessly destroyed  all  these  on  arriving  at  Antwerp, 
thinking  passport  in  wife's  hands  sufficient  cre- 
dentials." 

Another  hour;  another  memorandum:  "Pass- 
port detained,  pending  inquiries." 

Now  came  the  critical  moment.  The  busy 
lieutenant  was  approached  at  his  littered  desk  by 
a  suppliant  Yvonne. 

"Our  little  lunch  is  postponed — perhaps  for- 
ever," she  said  sadly.  "Inquiries  will  take  days." 

He  read  the  memoranda. 

"Bother!"  he  said  in  English.  He  came  over 
[166] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

to  Stoneman.  "You  destroyed  papers?"  he  asked 
incredulously.  "In  these  times?" 

Stoneman  laughed. 

"I  thought  I  was  all  right  when  I  got  to  my 
passport  and  my  wife,"  he  answered. 

The  lieutenant  turned  away.  Another  half 
hour  passed  before  he  returned. 

"I  have  personally  guaranteed  you  by  carriage, 
railway  or  canal-boat,"  he  said,  laughing. 

Three  people  drew  deep  breaths,  but  madame 
eyed  the  green  papers. 

"Where  is  the  fourth?"  she  asked,  with  sud- 
den intuition. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,  dear  Madame  Campion. 
I  can't  get  one  for  you.  They  say  the  house 
should  not  be  left  with  a  servant  only.  Do  you 
mind  very  much?  I  have  done  my  best." 

"It  is  an  indignity,  Otto!"  she  said  proudly. 

"If  I  were  only  the  commander,"  he  replied 
with  humility. 

The  first  tightening  of  the  velvet-gloved  hand ; 
she  had  feared  it.  What  prospect,  after  this 
hint,  of  their  getting  out  of  Belgium?  She  and 
Yvonne  had  not  been  separated  since  the  war 
opened.  She  must  let  Yvonne  go;  go  deep  into 
that  enemy-ruled  country  under  conditions  just- 
ly described  as  desperate.  It  was  the  hardest 

[167] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

moment  of  an  incredible  five  months.  For  the 
first  time  she  could  not  pretend.  Her  haughty 
head  was  bowed  and  her  voice  quavered  as  she 
said  to  Peggy: 

"I  must  trust  her  to  you,  my  dear." 

"I  am  grieved,  dear  madame,"  murmured  the 
lieutenant.  "Let  me  call  to-morrow  afternoon 
and  cheer  you  up." 

"You  are  always  thoughtful,  Otto,"  madame 
answered,  as  though  she  meant  it.  "Do  come." 

As  they  left,  Yvonne  murmured: 

"Come  to  Brussels  as  early  as  you  can,  Otto." 

Her  almost  whispered  words,  her  glance,  left 
•him  in  rapture. 

Again  at  his  work,  he  smiled  at  the  success  of 
his  audacious  manoeuvre.  He  alone,  by  a  hint 
about  an  unprotected  house  to  the  head  of  the 
passport  bureau,  had  held  madame  in  Antwerp. 
Thus,  without  a  stiff  formal  request,  he  secured 
an  appointment  with  madame  at  which  to  pre- 
sent his  letter  from  his  mother,  and  make  pro- 
posals in  the  customary  conventional  way  for  the 
hand  of  Yvonne. 

But  that  was  a  detail.  Yvonne  would  have 
only  one  chaperon  at  Brussels — a  young  just- 
married  chaperon,  brimming  with  love — had  he 
not  seen  how  Madame  Fargo  looked  at  her  hus- 

[168] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

band  at  the  dinner;  and,  therefore,  sympathetic 
with  love  and  lovers.  He  would  have  stolen  not 
minutes  but  hours  alone  with  Yvonne.  He  was 
grinning  now.  War  was  wonderful!  He — he 
alone — had  held  up  this  domineering  old  lady 
who  in  the  past  more  than  once  had  boxed  his 
ears.  He  laughed  outloud.  The  haughty  Ma- 
dame Campion,  not  such  a  bad  sort,  but  with  lots 
of  frills,  caged  up  by  him — him  alone!  He  felt 
a  thrill  of  humorous  pride.  War  was  most 
amusing. 

At  eleven  the  next  morning  Madame  Campion 
kissed  Yvonne  as  though  the  latter  was  going  for 
a  day  in  the  country,  for  pleasure.  "Tell  the 
comtesse,"  she  whispered;  and  afterward  she 
waved  a  cheerful  hand  to  the  three  people  in  the 
carriage.  It  was  perhaps  a  final  parting.  At 
best,  no  one  ever  knew  in  Belgium ;  but  if  papers 
were  forged,  and  all  kinds  of  unavoidable  clews 
left  behind,  such  an  expedition  could  fairly  be 
called  a  forlorn  hope. 

"Have  you  telegraphed  for  rooms?"  Stone- 
man  asked. 

The  two  girls  laughed.  The  notion  of  Bel- 
gians or  neutrals  telegraphing  in  Belgium 
seemed  ludicrous.  They  were  eager,  excited  by 
hope  and  danger.  Peggy's  cheeks  were  deli- 

[169] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

cately  flushed  by  exhilaration  and  the  frosty  air. 
Yvonne  was  a  ball  of  fur — coat,  muff,  cap  and 
ear  tippets ;  and  her  face  was  heavily  veiled. 

"Things  seem  so  easy  and  natural,"  Stoneman 
explained,  "that  I  forgot  for  a  moment." 

But  now  they  were  in  the  Chaussee  de  Berchem 
and  one  could  no  longer  forget.  Peggy  was 
shocked,  absorbed,  by  the  ruin  shells  had 
wrought.  It  was  her  first  glimpse  of  real  war. 
She  had  missed  its  ravages  coming  down  from 
Esschen,  for  she  had  been  thinking  of  Geoffrey. 
Stoneman  watched  her  covertly.  He  had  become 
so  inured  to  a  world  in  ruins  that  he  saw,  with 
a  soldier's  indifference,  what  made  Peggy  flame ; 
but  her  fire  kindled  him  anew.  He  saw  afresh 
though  her  eager  eyes,  not  knowing  that  he 
had  become  subtly  responsive  to  her  moods  or 
realizing  that  he  was  no  longer  a  human  machine 
of  unusual  perfection. 

When  an  airman  knows  that  he  has  nerves  his 
fighting  career  is  finished.  When  an  airman, 
come  to  earth,  starts  on  a  journey  of  peril,  not 
understanding  that  his  head  is  in  the  clouds,  he 
is  courting  danger.  He  will  need  quick  thought, 
a  detached  mind,  a  cool,  watchful  brain.  When 
these  have  been  his  in  the  past,  unsummoned  and 
unthought  of,  how  can  he  know,  if  an  overwhelm- 

[170] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

ing  new  emotion  comes  to  him,  that  he  may  be 
greatly  changed? 

Stoneman  in  any  moment  of  danger  had  never 
thought  of  his  mother;  he  had  mechanically 
pulled  the  right  lever.  Would  he  swiftly,  quiet- 
ly, do  the  right  thing  now,  when  something  in- 
finitely more  precious  than  his  own  life  hung  on 
his  prompt  right  action?  Would  the  quick  right 
word  come  under  sharp  questioning  from  a  sus- 
picious German  officer?  Or  should  he  pause  to 
think  of  the  consequence  of  a  mistake  to  the 
woman  he  loved? 

These  questions  never  came  to  Stoneman's 
mind.  He  only  watched  her  and  wondered  at 
her  beauty  and  her  courage,  and  was  vaguely 
oppressed  by  the  consciousness  that  he  was  dif- 
ferent, somehow.  The  main  difference  was  that 
he  was  anxious.  He  had  never  known  anxiety, 
and  he  entertained  this  new  visitor  unawares. 

When  they  passed  the  Porte  de  Malines  he 
identified  Forts  Three,  Four  and  Five,  and  told 
them,  with  intimate  detail,  the  story  of  the  Brit- 
ish Naval  Division.  Peggy  was  surprised  that 
he  knew  more  of  it  than  herself,  and  at  the  quick 
certainty  with  which  his  trained  eye  identified 
places. 

"Your  brother's  brigade,"  he  said,  "was  over 

[m] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

there,  far  to  the  left.  Only  seventy  of  the  Ben- 
bow  Brigade  ever  reported  back." 

"Seventy-one  now — thanks  to  you,  Yvonne!" 
Peggy  said. 

"Thanks  to  himself,"  Yvonne  corrected.  "He 
was  sent  down  to  Lierre  with  a  message ;  and  he 
got  through." 

"There  were  British  marines  at  Fort  Lierre," 
Stoneman  said. 

He  told  how  they  fought,  with  an  enthusiasm 
that  fixed  Peggy's  glowing  eyes  on  him.  He 
ended  by  saying  that  Geoffrey,  after  being 
wounded,  was  lucky  to  have  been  found  and  hid- 
den by  Belgians.  Yvonne  would  have  nothing 
of  luck.  Monsieur  Geoffrey  had  been  saved,  she 
said,  because  he  saved  himself.  He  was  very 
brave  and  never  gave  up.  She  was  a  little  in- 
dignant. Peggy  peered  curiously  into  the  veiled 
face,  but  could  see  nothing. 

They  passed  several  graves  in  a  field  by  a  dune. 

"German,"  Yvonne  said  bitterly.  "So  neat, 
aren't  they,  with  their  prim  little  crosses?  But 
see  Belgian  graves  now;  tumbled,  heaped  any- 
how. It  is  Belgian  land  and  those  dead  are  at 
home;  but  only  their  poor  caps  on  a  stick,  like 
a  scarecrow,  mark  them !  A  cap  has  fallen  there. 
And  see — a  civilian  hat.  The  brim  gapes  al- 

[172] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

ready.  They  would  not  let  me  go  to  Jaques' 
grave  at  Liege."  Her  voice  trailed  to  a  whisper; 
Peggy  clasped  her  hand. 

They  went  on  in  silence  amid  a  green  and 
peaceful  country.  It  was  green  from  tiny  heads 
of  winter  rye ;  it  was  peaceful,  for  the  reason  that 
no  human  beings  or  horses  or  cattle  were  on  the 
land.  Women  and  old  men  passed.  They 
glanced,  but  dropped  their  eyes  too  soon  to  see 
Peggy's  waving  hand. 

She  took  her  American  flag  from  her  pocket. 
Stoneman  raised  his  hat  slightly,  quite  simply, 
as  he  saw  it.  She  liked  that.  She  felt  that  she 
had  a  right  to  display  the  flag  now;  it  was  pro' 
tecting  one  who  owed  it  allegiance.  Her  heart 
warmed  to  it  as  she  saw  that  passers-by  stopped 
and  smiled  and  nodded.  She  glanced  across  to 
meet  eyes  fixed  on  hers  with  an  intensity  that 
seemed  odd  to  her;  but  she  thought  she  under- 
stood when  he  said  quietly  that  he  loved  to  see 
her  with  the  flag  in  her  hand.  She  should  look 
at  him  in  the  same  way,  she  thought,  if  he  held  a 
Union  Jack. 

After  Contich,  pale  green  fields  gave  place 
to  desolation,  for  the  crops  had  been  reaped  by 
shells  and  all  the  land  was  mud.  There  were 
many  ice-covered  pools  where  missiles  had  burst, 

[173] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

and  most  of  the  trees  were  smashed  or  gashed. 
All  the  houses  were  battered  ruins ;  but  now  and 
again,  from  beneath  a  tumbled  heap  of  bricks, 
an  old  woman  or  a  child  would  come  out.  Some- 
how, somewhere  in  these  wrecked  homes  people 
were  living.  A  chimney  lifted  its  high,  un- 
scathed head  from  the  ruins  of  the  Antwerp 
waterworks. 

Stoneman  eyed  it  with  a  peculiar  interest,  but 
fee  said  nothing.  He  was  almost  sure  he  had 
marked  it  from  the  air  in  that  swirling  gale  which 
had  driven  his  machine  toward  Antwerp.  They 
•crossed  the  Nethe  by  a  military  bridge  built  on 
the  ruins  of  the  war-shattered  one.  Yvonne 
pressed  Peggy's  hand. 

"Monsieur  Geoffrey  crossed  this  river,"  she 
murmured.  "Lierre  is  up  that  way." 

Their  papers  were,  for  the  first  time,  examined 
here.  Stoneman  gave  the  private  a  copy  of  the 
Tageblatt  and  a  Dutch  cigar,  and  was  eagerly 
thanked.  They  passed  a  shapeless  mass  of 
tumbled  earth  and  steel  and  concrete — what  was 
left  of  Waelhem  Fort.  Near  Malines  they  saw 
the  first  occupied  country  house.  Its  windows 
were  unshuttered,  its  garden  cared  for,  its 
shrubs  wrapped  in  coverings  against  frost. 

"The  Chateau  de  Belleville,"  Yvonne  said. 
[174] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"Madame  has  a  German  son-in-law  of  impor- 
tance and  is  protected.  It  is  a  station  on  the  un- 
derground road.  She  hides  them  over  the  day, 
and — Ah,  there  she  is!" 

A  shapeless  bundle,  bending  over  a  frozen 
flower  plot,  lifted  itself  as  the  carriage  stopped. 
The  girl  called  out.  Madame  pushed  back  her 
cowl-like  head  covering  and  came  to  them. 

"It  is  I— Yvonne." 

The  eyes  in  the  dark,  brooding  face  grew 
brighter.  Yvonne  lifted  her  veil.  They  looked 
at  each  other  for  a  long  instant,  and  then  Yvonne 
presented  her  friends. 

"The  American  flag,"  madame  said,  "is  next 
to  the  Belgian  in  my  heart." 

"I  have  a  basket  for  you,"  Yvonne  said.  "And 
auntie  sends  her  love." 

"Both  are  welcome.  I  have  twelve  to  feed  to- 
day." 

"Let  me  take  it  in,"  Stoneman  offered. 

"No,  monsieur — thanks!"  Madame  looked 
this  way  and  that.  "It  is  well  that  you  go  on  be- 
fore any  German  automobile  passes." 

"It  is  good-bye,"  Yvonne  announced.  "We 
hope  to  get  out  next  week." 

"Have  you  passes?"  asked  madame,  startled. 

"We  think  we  see  a  way." 
[175] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"You  have  done  much,  borne  much,  for  Bel- 
gium, Yvonne.  To  my  friends  of  the  outside 
world  tell  that  I  say,  every  day :  Le  Roi  et  Vic- 
toire!  .  .  .  Go!  quick!  A  car  comes." 

She  held  up  her  hand.  Peggy  felt  that  it  was 
hard,  calloused,  chapped.  She  bent  over  and 
kissed  it ;  and  so  did  Yvonne.  They  looked  back 
as  they  drove  away.  Madame  La  Comtesse  de 
Belleville,  once  an  imperious  and  elegant  patri- 
cian, patrician  still,  was  staggering  with  the 
heavy  basket  along  the  drive  up  to  the  house. 
Yvonne  told  of  the  killing  of  her  two  sons;  of 
her  refusal  to  receive  a  daughter  who  declined 
to  leave  the  German  court;  of  her  unending  la- 
bors; of  the  surrender  of  most  of  her  fortune. 
"And  in  July,"  Yvonne  ended  by  saying,  "they 
said  that  she  was  as  haughty  and  iron-hearted 
as  Auntie  Maria." 

Yvonne  laughed  in  a  swiftly  changing  mood. 

"You  are  fortunate,"  she  exclaimed,  with  a 
droll  look,  "that  you  did  not  know  them  then! 
The  underground?  The  men  collect  at  the  cha- 
teau from  the  south  and  west.  They  steal  in 
one  by  one.  Then  they  are  led  in  little  parties  of 
ten  or  twelve  toward  the  north,  toward  Ghere, 
and  they  spend  the  night  there ;  and  another  near 
Rethy." 

[176] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AXD  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

Stoneman,  greatly  interested,  took  out  the 
map  he  had  brought  from  the  house. 

"Careful,  Monsieur  Monty!"  Yvonne  cau- 
tioned. "Neutrals  must  not  seem  too  curious." 

They  were  nearing  Malines  now  and  more 
autos  were  passing  or  overtaking  them.  The  air- 
man held  the  map  low  and  followed  carefully  her 
account  of  the  underground  route  to  freedom. 

"It  is  hard  to  cross  the  railway,"  Yvonne  said. 
"It  is  heavily  guarded  and  some  are  caught  there. 
Then  there  is  the  wood,  and  the  charcoal-burner 
beyond  there."  She  pointed  to  the  spot  on  the 
map.  "He  watches  and  hides  them  as  they  come. 
Then,  when  the  night  is  dark  they  steal  to  the 
wire  of  death.  Perhaps  the  sentry  is  paid.  It 
is  a  fortune  to  him.  He  wants  to  be  paid.  All 
do. 

"They  count  heads  literally — in  the  dark  some- 
times— that  he  may  get  all  his  due ;  twenty  francs 
for  each  one.  HBut  sometimes  there  are  patrols 
and  officers ;  then  it  is  a  rush,  and  perhaps  a  flash 
like  lightning  and  a  man  killed,  and  a  bell  set 
ringing.  But  if  all  goes  well  it  is  a  human 
trestle,  Monsieur  Monty.  Men  bend  as  at  leap- 
frog and  boards  are  stretched  from  back  to  back, 
and  other  boards  pushed  out  over  the  barbed 
wire.  Then  they  cross  as  over  a  pond,  but  the 

[177] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

boards  sway  and  bend,  and  sometimes  one  falls; 
and  perhaps  they  must  leave  him — on  his  bed  of 
barbed  wire.  Or  perhaps  they  must  tunnel  and 
burrow  beneath.  That  is  the  way,  monsieur,  free 
Belgians  must  leave  their  own  country  now." 

They  were  stopped  by  a  sentry  and  again  pro- 
duced their  passes ;  and  a  civilian  collected  a  toll 
of  a  franc.  He  explained  that  the  toll  had  been 
established  by  the  burgomaster  of  Mechlin — he 
must  not  say  Malines  now,  the  Germans  had  so 
ordered — for  the  aid  of  the  town;  but  the  Ger- 
mans were  not  asked  to  pay. 

Stoneman  gave  a  hundred  francs,  and  Peggy 
smiled  approval.  She  was  pleased  at  the  readi- 
ness with  which  the  airman  spent  her  money. 
They  clattered  over  cobbled  streets,  past  shrap- 
nel-marked houses,  houses  with  fronts  torn  out, 
homes  without  windows,  buildings  without  cor- 
nices; past  the  beautiful  cathedral,  with  intact 
front  but  shell-pierced  in  its  transept  and  roof; 
past  the  mediaeval  town  hall,  now  a  public  kitchen 
where  a  long  queue  stood  holding  jugs  for  soup; 
past  an  ecclesiastic  of  pallid,  ascetic  face. 

"Son  Eminence"  Yvonne  murmured.  Peggy 
turned  to  look  again  at  Cardinal  Mercier. 

The  lunch  at  the  inn  was  perfect.  The  table- 
cloth was  spotless,  the  table  well  appointed;  the 

[178] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

menu  included  soup,  cutlets,  roast  beef,  dessert 
and  coffee.  The  sabots  of  Belgian  girls  clattered 
on  the  stones  of  the  courtyard,  and  they  chattered 
and  sang  at  their  washing.  The  elaborate  print- 
ed wine  list  excited  curiosity.  Fifty  wines  and 
vintages  were  named,  but  each  name  was  lightly 
scratched  through  with  a  pen.  The  landlady 
shrugged. 

"It  shows  what  the  Germans  left  in  the  cel- 
lar," she  explained. 

After  Malines,  traffic  each  way  was  a  steady 
stream.  The  stone-flagged  middle  was  tacitly 
left  to  swift  automobiles,  all  filled  with  German 
officers.  A  spring  cart  behind  the  carriage, 
drawn  by  a  fine  Flemish  mare,  drew  out  of  the 
slow  procession  on  to  the  pave.  An  officer  in  a 
passing  motor  stood  up  and  lashed  the  driver  in 
the  face  with  a  long  whip.  Peggy  jumped  up 
with  a  cry. 

"Sit  down!"  Stoneman  ordered  sternly. 

She  obeyed  instantly.     She  turned  and  saw 
blood  running  down  the  driver's  face.     He  was  | 
staring  straight  ahead  and  continued  to  puff  at 
his  pipe. 

"He  dare  not  protest,"  she  breathed,  "even  by 
wiping  the  blood  from  his  face!  I  am  sorry," 

[ITU 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

she  added.  "I  forgot.  I  should  not  have  jumped 
up." 

"They  did  not  notice,"  Stoneman  assured  her. 

Yvonne  began  to  talk  quietly  about  the  under- 
ground road  again.  The  charcoal-burner's  wife 
had  been  on  her  brother's  estate,  she  said.  Once, 
when  she  had  been  in  Turnhout  to  collect  Mechlin 
laces,  which  the  Germans  had  promised  might  be 
sold  in  the  United  States  for  the  benefit  of  the 
Belgian  poor,  Marie  Koort  had  come  to  see  her 
and  told  her  all  about  their  perilous  patriotic 
labors.  The  couple  had  themselves  got  over  six 
hundred  young  men  across  the  border — "all  go- 
ing to  their  king  on  the  Yser,  by  way  of  Eng- 
land, to  join  his  army." 

It  was  quite  dark  now,  and  the  coachman 
stopped  and  lighted  the  carriage  lamps.  They 
were  in  Vilvorde,  and  street  cars  from  Brussels 
were  coming  and  going,  and  the  flare  of  the  capi- 
tal shone  in  the  sky.  A  long  silence  followed  as 
they  unconsciously  braced  themselves  for  new 
encounters  and  prepared  to  evade  new  difficul- 
ties. Yvonne  thought  of  the  day  in  May  when 
she  had  come  to  the  merry  city  and  danced  all 
night  in  the  ballroom  in  the  great  mansion  of  the 
Comtesse  de  Belleville — five  dances  with  Otto, 
and  how  she  had  enjoyed  them;  and  her  aunt  had 

[180] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

rebuked  him  austerely  for  stealing  her  away  for 
a  few  minutes;  and  Jaques — how  he  had  flirted 
with  Hedvig  von  Hohlen  that  night ! 

Now  Jaques  was  dead,  and  Hedvig's  father 
had  commanded  a  German  battalion  at  Liege 
when  Jaques  had  given  up  his  life,  and  her  aunt 
had  been  refused  permission  to  come  home  to  her 
own  city.  Yvonne  lingered  on  the  past  that  she 
might  not  think  of  to-morrow.  For  months  she 
had  been  so  perfectly  trained  in  a  cruel  school, 
that  she  came  from  her  reverie  without  a  start, 
with  a  smile,  as  Peggy  spoke. 

"I  asked  too  much  of  myself,"  Peggy  said.  "I 
have  not  behaved  well  to-day.  I  am  sorry.  I 
shall  do  better  after  this." 

"A  whiplash  in  the  face,"  Yvonne  said,  with 
one  of  her  sudden  bitter  flashes,  "is  so  slight  a 
thing  that  a  Belgian  thinks  it  a  compliment.  You 
said  you  would  smile  and  laugh  and  talk.  I 
thank  you  that  you  did  not.  Now  that  you  have 

seen  a  little Now  you  must  laugh  with  our 

conquerors." 

They  were  crossing  a  square  now,  brilliantly 
lighted,  thronged. 

"Did  you  hear  that?"  Yvonne  cried.  "They 
laugh,  themselves — the  Bruxellois.  They  have 
never  been  under  fire,  so  they  hold  their  heads 

[181] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

higher  than  in  Antwerp.  Watch  them  as  they 
look  through  the  German  soldiers.  They  do  not 
see  them.  It  is  as  though  the  conquerors  in  grey 
were  not  here;  grey  ghosts  who  wind  their  way 
among  my  people  unseen,  unheard.  That  group 
laughs;  you  hear  it?  Poor  Monsieur  Max!  He 
made  them  laugh  too  much ;  and  so  he  goes  to  a 
German  prison." 

They  turned  into  a  stately  avenue  and  drew  up 
at  their  hotel;  so  bright  within,  so  peaceful,  that 
Peggy  wondered.  Not  a  German  in  sight;  not 
one  in  the  hotel,  the  porter  said — "frozen  out," 
he  explained  in  English,  having  been  a  bellhop  in 
New  York.  Some  officers  had  once  come,  he 
said ;  but  no  one  spoke  in  the  whole  dining-room 
when  they  were  there. 

Stoneman  lingered  in  the  rear,  silent,  confident 
in  the  tact  of  these  two  girls.  He  heard  Yvonne 
explain  that  they  should  return  with  four  children 
on  Monday  or  Tuesday;  that  they  should  take 
rooms  for  all  now  to  save  trouble.  The  rooms 
should  be  inexpensive  and  high  up,  and  she  and 
Madame  Fargo  would  go  there,  too,  to  keep 
these  children  in  order.  Monsieur  would  wish 
quiet.  Monsieur  must  not  be  troubled  with  a 
noisy  family.  Monsieur  must  be  accommodated 

[182] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

in  the  entresol  or  on  the  second  floor.  And  so  it 
was  arranged. 

An  exquisite  dinner,  with  several  courses  and 
many  entrees ;  people  openly  reading  the  forbid- 
den London  Times;  a  four-paged,  typewritten, 
secret  local  daily  paper  freely  passed  about;  a 
dinner  party  of  twelve  at  one  table,  from  which 
came  unrestrained  laughter — South  Americans 
and  Spaniards,  they  thought;  an  Englishman, 
too  old  to  be  interned,  grumbling  over  his  food, 
just  as  he  had  in  peacetime;  it  was  bizarre  and 
unreal  to  Peggy,  and  distressing  to  Yvonne. 

"Otto  must  not  come  here,"  she  said  in  a  low 
voice.  "Terrible  things  might  happen." 

Yvonne  caught  a  name. 

"Is  it  Monsieur  von  Brock,  of  the  Bank?"  she 
asked  the  waiter. 

"Yes,  mademoiselle." 

With  guarded  care,  she  gave  Stoneman  a  mes- 
sage for  this  Monsieur  von  Brock.  He  listened, 
surprised  to  learn  that  Yvonne  was  concerned 
with  high  matters  of  state  and  finance. 

"I  overheard  a  sentence  at  the  dinner  with 
you;  another  at  tea  yesterday,"  she  murmured. 
"I  could  piece  them  together.  It  is  sure." 

Later  the  banker  came,  summoned  by  a 
waiter.  He  bowed  courteously.  He  was  a  small, 

[1831 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

pale  man,  and  Stoneman  thought  he  looked  more 
normal  than  any  Belgian  he  had  seen.  His  eyes 
were  calm,  his  manner  almost  placid,  his  jaws 
firmly  locked;  he  had,  in  fact,  been  transformed 
by  daily  German  browbeatings  and  insolences 
into  a  human  machine  which  mechanically  fought 
on  and  on,  and  yielded  not  a  single  inch.  What 
the  Germans  did  with  the  great  bank  and  its 
accounts  and  its  revenues,  they  did,  but  with 
never  a  helping  hand  from  him. 

"I  am  a  mere  messenger,  monsieur,"  Stone- 
man said;  "a  friendly  neutral.  I  have  no  cre- 
dentials to  give.  I  ask  that  you  do  not  inquire 
about  me  at  my  legation  or  elsewhere.  I  am  told 
that  my  information  is  correct.  I  am  asked  to 
give  it  to  you  in  confidence." 

"Proceed,  monsieur." 

"I  am  to  say  that  a  proclamation  will  be  issued 
on  the  twenty-second  suspending  the  bank's 
right  to  issue  bank-notes." 

The  banker  quietly  sat  down  and  ordered  cof- 
fee for  Stoneman  and  himself,  watching  Stone- 
man openly  all  the  time.  It  was  a  long  time  be- 
fore he  spoke,  and  when  he  did  it  was  only  casu- 
ally to  remark  that  Belgians  read  "Quentin  Dur- 
ward"  because  of  the  lively  descriptions  of  the 
burghers  of  Ghent  and  Bruges. 
[184] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

The  astonished  listener  murmured  politely 
that  he  was  glad  to  hear  that  Sir  Walter  Scott 
was  familiar  to  Belgians. 

"That  book,"  the  banker  continued,  "led  me 
to  others.  I  read  in  'Ivanhoe'  that  the  Normans 
forced  gold  from  Isaac  of  York.  They  were  mer- 
ciful. They  drew  only  his  teeth.  These  Germans 
pull  the  teeth;  and  then  they  extract  the  living 
nerve.  .  .  .  Sugar,  monsieur?  A  liqueur?  .  .  . 
Are  you  quite  sure?  This  news  is  vital.  I  had 
not  expected  such  violation  of  our  charter.  It 
gives  me  two  business  days  to  prepare,  mon- 
sieur. ...  I  will  not  ask  where  it  comes  from. 
I  will  not  ask  who  you  are.  I  trust  you,  mon- 
sieur. I  shall  act  immediately." 

He  drained  his  coffee  and  rose. 

"When  Belgium  is  once  more  free,"  he  said, 
"the  bank  will  search  you  out  and  you  shall  see 
that  it  is  not  ungrateful." 

"A  mere  messenger,  monsieur." 

The  banker  shook  his  head : 

"Perhaps,"  he  said,  "you  will  tell  us,  then, 
whom  else  our  king  shall  honor.  Till  that  day, 
monsieur — au  revoir." 

Stoneman  sauntered  to  the  single  public  draw- 
ing-room. The  South  American  party  had  set- 
tled to  cards.  The  Englishman  sat  reading  his 

[185] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

newspaper.  Belgian  ladies,  in  black,  sat  silently 
knitting.  They  started  and  bent  their  heads 
lower  every  time  the  neutrals  laughed.  The  Eng- 
lishman came  over  and  spoke.  He  railed  at  the 
Germans  in  his  loud  voice,  as  he  had  complained 
of  his  dinner — a  tired,  lonely,  old  man,  almost 
senile,  who  had  lived  fifty  years  in  Brussels,  and 
could  not  understand  why  these  "filthy  brutes" 
had  closed  his  club.  Was  it  wise  to  talk  thus? 
Stoneman  asked.  The  old  man  answered  that  he 
did  not  care;  of  course  there  were  spies  in  the 
hotel — he  had  not  spotted  them  definitely ;  but  he 
suspected  one  neutral  waiter,  the  ginger-haired 
fellow  who  pretended  to  be  a  Swiss. 

Stoneman  thought  it  prudent  to  move.  In 
the  lounge  he  found  Peggy,  with  her  hat  and 
cloak  on.  He  approached  her  with  eager,  open 
pleasure,  which  any  cynical  old  observer  would 
have  described  as  unmarital.  But  Peggy  quickly 
set  him  in  his  part. 

"I  thought  you  were  never  coming,"  she  said 
a  little  crossly.  "Run  along  and  get  your  coat. 
I  must  have  a  stroll.  I'm  cramped  with  that 
long  drive." 

As  he  humbly  obeyed  he  heard  her  order  a 
cafe  complet  for  monsieur  at  nine  in  the  morn- 
ing sharp. 

[186] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

Outside,  in  the  wide  dark  avenue,  where  the 
cold  crisp  air  pleasantly  flipped  them  to  deep 
inhalation,  she  laughed  and  cried  gaily : 

"You  may  not  want  the  coffee;  but  I  had  to 
pretend  some  interest  in  you." 

"Any  pretence  from  you,"  he  said,  as  he  thrust 
his  arm  through  hers,  "is  better  than  reality." 

"I  must  think  that  out,"  she  responded  as  she 
set  a  stiff  pace. 

"Reality  would  be  indifference,"  he  explained. 
"I  like  anything  better  than  that." 

Peggy's  gaiety  had  been  a  sham,  but  the  fast 
walk  and  the  moment's  respite  from  strain  made 
her  spirits  bound.  The  touch  of  gallantry  in  his 
speech  amused  her. 

"Indifference?"  she  said  in  her  frank,  friendly 
way.  "Oh,  no;  I  am  too  grateful." 

"Grateful!    For  what,  please?" 

She  would  not  explain  that  it  was  because  he 
was  one  of  the  right  sort.  For  half  hours  together 
during  the  day  she  had  actually  forgotten  that 
the  passport  said  he  was  her  husband.  This  un- 
believable truth  had  flashed  to  her  after  dinner; 
and  she  had  reflected  that  she  must  have  seen 
this  thing  through  even  if  the  man  had  been  the 
most  shameless  offender  against  decency  or  good 
taste. 

[187] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"Everything  is  unreal  here,"  she  said,  glanc- 
ing up  and  down  the  dark,  almost  deserted  ave- 
nue. "These  black-shuttered  houses  are  not 
empty.  There  is  a  man  creeping  into  his  own 
home  as  if  he  was  a  burglar.  It's  only  nine 
o'clock  and  it's  like  London  when  you're  going 
home  from  a  ball.  It's  more  peaceful  than  in 
peacetime.  In  that  hot  hotel  it's  like  that  too. 
A  great  box  of  lilacs,  white  and  mauve,  has  come 
for  Yvonne.  Could  you  believe  that?  Hot- 
house blooms  in  this  captured  city,  and  florists 
open!" 

"It's  weird,"  Stoneman  agreed. 

He  was  buoyant  because  she  was,  and  because 
he  had  her  for  half  an  hour  all  to  himself.  The 
high  spirits  of  youth  flamed  in  the  two,  as  it  will 
in  intervals  between  perils.  They  saw  no  police- 
man, no  patrol,  no  German  uniform,  and  only 
now  and  again  were  they  compelled  to  silence  by 
the  appearance  of  some  passer-by.  They  heard 
always  the  distant  hum  of  rushing  automobiles 
and  now  and  again  the  rumbling  of  a  train  of 
heavy  motor  cars.  The  only  light  was  that  of  the 
moon,  which  shone  sometimes  from  rifts  between 
high  white  clouds.  It  made  fantastic  sparkling 
cornices  along  the  tops  of  houses  where  icicles- 
hung. 

[188] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

As  they  turned,  after  a  rushing  half  mile, 
Peggy  slackened  her  pace. 

''I  haven't  played  the  game  to-day,"  she  said, 
with  a  winning  seriousness.  She  looked  a  plea 
for  pardon.  She  felt  humble  toward  this  man. 
As  such  a  feeling  was  an  entire  novelty  it  is  not 
surprising  that  she  did  not  recognize  it.  She  was 
humble  because  she  was  so  grateful.  "I've  let 
you  down.  I  shan't  fail  you  again,"  she  added. 

He  was  too  eager  to  assure  her  that  she  had 
been  perfect,  that  he  had  been  in  fault;  but  she 
would  not  have  it  so.  She  had  even  depressed 
Yvonne — unconquerable,  staunch  Yvonne,  who 
faced  a  dreadful  to-morrow. 

"Her  only  passport  is  an  engagement  ring," 
she  said.  "She  must  accept  it.  Poor  Yvonne!'' 
Peggy  dropped  her  head  and  sighed.  The  moo» 
came  out  and  she  raised  her  head  and  looked  up 
into  Stoneman's  face  with  vivid  interest.  "You 
don't  blame  her  at  all,  do  you?"  she  asked,  a 
little  breathlessly,  as  though  she  gave  great 
weight  to  his  answer. 

Stoneman,  a  lover  whose  first  love  had  flamed 
in  an  hour  under  strange  intimacies  forced  by 
unique  circumstances,  and  who,  as  a  natural  con- 
sequence, was  passionately  ardent  in  defence  of 
the  sanctity  of  love,  held  a  very  definite  opinion 

[189] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

about  Yvonne,  which  he  felt  to  be  too  shameless 
to  admit,  even  to  himself.  Surprised  by  the  ques- 
tion and  perturbed  by  an  earnestness  that  seemed 
to  demand  utter  frankness,  he  parried  lamely: 

"Could  I  criticize?"  he  asked;  "I,  who  owe  so 
much  to  her?" 

She  looked  away,  as  though  disappointed; 
then,  hesitating  a  little,  she  said: 

"Yes;  you  could — for  her  sake." 

"For  her  sake?"  he  repeated;  but  she  did  not 
explain. 

"She  may  get  a  passport,",  she  said,  "if  she  is 
engaged  to  him — if  there  is  that  much  of  a  tie. 
The  trousseau,  you  see,  cannot  be  bought  in  Bel- 
gium, and  so  on.  But  if  she  does  not  get  the  pass- 
port she  must  marry  him — or,  else,  a  German 
prison.  You  see  that,  don't  you?" 

"Yes;  I  see,"  he  admitted.    "But  why  should 

» 
we 

"Please!"  she  interrupted,  pleading.  "I  have 
a  reason.  If  you  had  a  sister,  which  would  you 
have  her  choose?" 

"My  sister,"  he  answered,  "would  never  put 
herself  in  the  position  to  have  to  make  such  a 
choice.  .  .  .  And  you  would  not.  You  know  you 
would  not." 

She  stopped.  They  stood  in  the  silent  street. 
[190] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"You  evade,"  she  said  in  a  lowered  but  level 
voice.  "And  you  do  not  know  whether  I  would 
or  not.  If  anybody  had  told  me  a  week  ago  that 
I  should  be  travelling  in  Belgium  as  your  wife  I 
should  have  thought  it  a  deadly  insult.  Yet  I 
find  it  easy — thanks  to  you." 

He  looked  down  into  her  moonlit  eyes,  which 
met  his  unflinchingly. 

"You  had  no  choice,"  he  said  quietly.  "I  forced 
myself  on  you.  And  it  isn't  the  same  thing,  any- 
how. You  are  deceiving  the  enemy.  She  is  dup- 
ing a  man." 

"An  enemy." 

"One  enemy — that's  the  point.  But  God  for- 
give me  for  censuring  her.  Peggy,  please  stop 
it!" 

He  caught  her  arm  and  she  walked  with  him. 
Though  they  had  arranged  for  it,  it  was  the  first 
time  he  had  called  her  Peggy  when  they  were 
alone.  Neither  thought  of  it. 

"She  was  forced  to  it,"  she  said.  "She  had  an 
instant  to  choose.  She  saved  her  dead  father's 
friend  from  prison  by  welcoming  the  lieutenant 
as  a  friend.  The  inevitable  followed — more  fel- 
low-country people  to  help;  more  things  to  do 
for  her  king  and  her  country.  Geoffrey,  a 
[191] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

stranger,  not  even  a  Belgian,  to  be  nursed  at 
great  risk,  and  rescued.    You  and  I,  strangers." 

"I  know,"  he  broke  in;  "but  please " 

"I  must  go  on!"  she  cried.  "You  must  change. 
Not  in  being  silent ;  not  covering  it  up.  In  your 
heart,  your  brain,  through  and  through,  you 
must  feel  that  she  is  splendid — a  real  heroine. 
Her  best — she  has  given  that,  with  never  a  word 
or  thought  of  sacrifice." 

Intense  feeling  was  in  the  restrained  voice. 
Her  face  was  pale  and  her  eyes  were  pleading. 
Stoneman  firmly  held  in  check  emotion  respon- 
•ive  tc  hers. 

"I'll  always  owe  her  gratitude,"  he  said. 

"Gratitude!"  she  echoed  contemptuously. 
"What  I'm  asking  is  justice.  She  is  strong  and 
true.  She  has  never  wavered  in  the  higher  loy- 
alty; never  faltered  in  the  nobler  duty." 

He  was  thrilled  by  the  passion  in  her  voice. 

"I'm  sorry  for  her,"  he  answered.  "I  own  up. 
I'ny  sorry  for  him  too." 

"Sorry  for  him?"  A  fine  scorn  rang  in  her 
voice.  "His  delicate  little  attentions — his  fine 
courtesy — his  wine  of  Louvain — his  little  Ger- 
man dog " 

"He  loves  her." 

"She  does  not  love  him." 
[192] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"He  trusts  her." 

"She  has  a  higher  trust — her  country." 

"What  will  he  think  of  woman — of  all  women 
— when  he  finds  out?" 

"We  already  know  what  Germans  think  of 
women!" 

Her  tense  voice  vibrated.  She  wished  to  draw 
away  from  his  arm,  but  he  held  her  close.  That 
answer  silenced  him.  They  were  close  to  the 
hotel  now. 

"Do  you  mind  turning  back?"  she  asked,  with 
a  sudden  change  of  manner.  She  was  very  gen- 
tle and  appealing  now.  "I'll  tell  you  in  a  min- 
ute," she  said,  "why  I  persist.  It  seems  very 
horrid  of  me,  of  course;  but  it  isn't,  really. 
Leave  her  out  of  it  for  a  minute,  and  please — 
please  be  quite  straight.  If  you  loved  a  girl,  and 
you  knew  that  she  had  let  a  German  propose, 
and  perhaps  put  his  arms  round  her,  and  perhaps 
kiss  her,  and  she  hadn't  tried  to  strike  him  dead ; 
and  you  knew  why  she  hadn't,  and  all  the  won- 
derful things  she  did  for  her  country Well, 

what  would  you  do?"  She  stopped,  breathless; 
but  he  did  not  speak. 

He  looked  into  her  upturned  face  and  her  eyes 
dragged  from  him  the  reluctant  truth. 

"I  should  always  wonder,"  he  said  slowly, 
[193] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIEED  GIEL 

"whether  so  wonderful  an  actress  was  acting 
with  me." 

"Oh!"  she  said,  and  her  exclamation  was  a  lit- 
tle stifled  wail.  "I  never  thought  of  that.  You 
mean  you  wouldn't  believe  in  her?" 

"How  could  I?  She  had  been  a  traitor  to 
love." 

She  nodded. 

"Thank  you  for  your  frankness,"  she  said. 
"You  would  stop  loving  her.  She  would  be  re- 
pugnant to  you.  You  wouldn't  believe  in  her. 
She  would  lose  you  in  the  end — the  last  sacrifice 
for  her  flag  and  her  land." 

Her  note  was  sad,  not  sarcastic.  Stoneman 
looked  sidewise  at  her  and  thought  of  her  in 
Yvonne's  place,  as,  of  course,  he  had  all  through 
the  conversation.  Dark  anxiety  pressed. 

"If  you  have  to  choose,"  he  commanded  in  a 
voice  suddenly  sharp,  "choose  prison." 

"Oh,  of  course!"  She  tried  to  cover  the  slip. 
"Yvonne  had  no  chance  to  choose,"  she  began. 

"Yvonne's  way  and  your  way  will  always  be 
different,"  he  interrupted  again. 

"Her  way  must  lead  to  Geoffrey,"  she  said 
quietly.  "Yes ;  that's  what  it's  all  about.  That's 
why  I've  worried  you.  You  would  think  as  he 
would.  She  cares  a  lot  for  him.  I  suspected  it. 

[194] 


THE  WHITE  HOESE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

To-night  her  locket  dropped.  Out  came  his  iden- 
tification tag.    That  settles  it." 

"God!"  he  cried,  staring  at  Peggy.  "How  can 
she  ogle  this  German  to-morrow?" 

Peggy  stopped  again  and  faced  him  once 
more;  and  she  answered,  in  a  choked  voice: 

"If  it  was  only  herself  I  do  not  think  she 
would;  but  it's  her  aunt  and  Clothilde;  and  it's 
you  and  it's  me.  We  must  shelter  her  as  much 
as  we  can  to-morrow.  We  go  to  the  Cafe  de  la 
Monnaie  to  lunch.  Then,  St.  Gudule's " 

"To  church?" 

"There's  no  service  on  then.  She  chooses  it. 
She  will  not  be  alone  with  him." 

They  retraced  their  steps.  Near  the  door  she 
said: 

"Let  Yvonne  tell  her  own  story  to  Geoffrey." 

"Oh,  that— of  course!" 

She  paused  at  the  entrance  and  looked  at  him 
wistfully. 

"I'm  trying  so  hard  to  be  fair,"  she  murmured; 
"to  be  fair  to  both — to  her  and  to  my  brother.  ,' 
Good  night." 


[195] 


IX 


Inside  the  great  Cathedral  Church  of  St. 
Gudule,  Stoneman  stood  breathing  the  incense- 
laden  air  and  peering  through  twilight  that 
would  have  been  darkness  but  for  many  candles 
flickering  before  many  altars  like  twinkling  stars. 
Before  some  of  these  altars  he  saw  German  pri- 
vates and  Belgian  peasants  touching  shoulders 
as  they  stood  with  their  eyes  fixed  in  religious 
awe.  He  found  at  last  what  he  had  come  to  see — 
the  one  Belgian  flag  permitted  in  the  conquered 
land.  He  lifted  his  arm  in  a  guarded  salute.  Two 
dim  figures  stood  before  the  shrine  over  which 
the  flag  hung  and  he  was  almost  certain  one  was 
that  of  the  young  German  officer.  He  knew 
now  why  Yvonne  had  come  to  the  cathedral. 
He  stole  out  silently,  feeling  like  one  who  had 
committed  sacrilege. 

Outside,  in  the  bright  daylight,  he  stood  ab- 
sorbed. This  girl  whom  he  had  dared  to  criticize 
had  led  her  lover  to  the  shadow  of  her  country's 
flag.  It  could  no  longer  protect;  but  it  could 
fortify,  could  justify,  could  almost  sanctify  her 

[196] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

hard  choice  between  two  loyalties.  He  dismissed 
this  thought.  There  was  no  second  choice  for  a 
Belgian.  All  obligations  were  swept  away  in 
the  national  ruin  except  one:  Duty  to  flag  and 
to  country — that  was  the  only  thing.  He  was 
ashamed  he  had  told  Peggy  that  Yvonne  was  a 
traitor  to  love.  Inevitably  his  absorbed  thought 
turned  to  Peggy.  What  if  she  were  the  one  in- 
side? What  if  her  safety  and  his,  and  that  of 
others,  hung  on  her  pretended  acceptance  of  a 
German's  love? 

He  woke  with  a  start  to  the  consciousness  that 
he  was  looking  straight  into  Peggy's  eyes.  Con- 
fused, he  stammered  that  she  had  been  right  not 
to  go  in. 

"There  they  come,"  Peggy  said,  eying  him 
aslant  as  they  walked  on  together.  "They  will 
follow.  Yvonne  and  I  have  arranged  our  route." 

He  nodded,  though  he  did  not  hear.  He  was 
profoundly  troubled.  How  long  had  he  been 
staring  at  her  ?  A  long  time ;  for  the  other  couple 
had  had  time  to  go  down  the  nave  and  come  out 
by  the  other  door.  What  had  his  unguarded  eyes 
told  her? 

They  passed  down  the  Place  de  la  Monnaie, 
skirting  the  crowd,  which  was  reading  proclama- 
tions in  the  windows  of  the  general  post  office. 

[197] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

The  rays  of  the  setting  sun  glittered  on  the  bayo- 
nets of  the  German  sentries  who  stood  at  the 
entrance.  In  the  Grand  Place  a  German  band 
was  playing  in  front  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville.  In 
this  heart  of  Brussels,  with  its  old  Brood  Huis 
and  its  touch  of  Spain,  flocked  by  silently  the 
once  merriest  population  of  all  the  world,  more 
subdued  here  always  than  elsewhere  in  the  city. 
Streams  of  people  jostled,  but  no  one  touched  a 
German,  and  no  one  seemed  to  see  a  German 
soldier,  of  whom  there  were  many. 

They  came  at  length  to  the  park.  Inside  the 
locked  gates  a  great  fir  tree  had  been  set  up. 
Little  children  stared  at  it  with  noses  pushed 
through  the  iron  railings.  Peggy  asked  in  French 
whether  the  Christmas  tree  was  for  them.  One 
understood. 

"It's  for  the  German  soldiers,  madame,"  he 
gaid;  "and  they've  stolen  our  place  too."  He 
pointed  to  the  gate  and  Peggy  read  the  sign: 
This  Park  is  Reserved  for  Children. 

They  walked  on.  Stoneman  was  almost  sure 
he  had  given  himself  away,  staring  at  Peggy  like 
a  moonstruck  fool.  Her  preoccupied  silence  cer- 
tainly did  not  mean  that  she  had  read  aright,  for 
she  had  been  very  quiet  as  they  had  walked  from 
the  restaurant  to  the  church;  yet  he  thought  he 

[198] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIKL 

perceived  constraint  in  her  manner.  Was  she 
thinking  only  of  Yvonne  as  he  ought  to  be  think- 
ing? Was  she  worrying  herself  about  a  cad  who 
had  let  her  know  that  he  loved  her?  Was  she 
saying  to  herself  that  every  consideration  of 
honor  and  chivalry  should  have  hidden  this  from 
her  at  such  a  time  ? 

He  was  so  troubled  that  he  was  unstrung;  and 
yet  a  difficult  hour  was  coming.  No  ingenuity 
had  availed  to  keep  the  lieutenant  out  of  the 
hotel.  He  must  come  there  to  "five  o'clock"; 
and,  of  course,  he  would  announce  the  engage- 
ment, and  they  must  all  be  merry  and  bright. 
At  the  hotel  entrance  Peggy  spoke. 

"I'll  wait  for  them  here,"  she  said.  "Hadn't 
you  better  warn  them  inside  that  a  German  is 
coming?"  She  looked  at  him  with  engaging  can- 
dor. "We  mustn't  sympathize  with  her — not  for 
an  hour,  at  least.  We  must  carry  on." 

Stoneman  went  in,  relieved,  and  sure  that  she 
had  been  worrying  about  real  troubles,  not  about 
his  absent-minded  scrutiny. 

Sharp  orders  and  scurryings  followed  his 
warning  to  the  hall  porter.  English  papers  were 
tucked  away.  Tea  and  coffee  cups  were  left  half 
emptied.  Belgian  guests  fled  to  their  rooms. 
The  old  Englishman  sauntered  to  the  elevator, 

[  199  ] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

grumbling.  The  porter  himself  retreated.  When 
the  lieutenant  came  only  Stoneman  and  a  Swiss 
waiter  were  in  the  lounge,  and  the  drawing-room 
was  deserted. 

A  jolly  hour,  if  one  might  judge  by  laughter; 
a  young  German  officer  in  the  height  of  spirits; 
an  American  couple,  voluble,  cheerful;  a  Bel- 
gian girl  in  mourning,  a  little  quiet  but  smiling 
and  bright-eyed,  wearing  a  great  bunch  of  white 
and  mauve  lilac  in  her  belt;  congratulations;  fe- 
licitations— finally  all  planning  a  little  holiday 
in  Holland.  Madame  Fargo  had  kindly  invited 
Yvonne  to  a  week  at  that  glittering  little  Hotel 
des  Indes,  at  The  Hague;  and  it  fitted  in  per- 
fectly, for  the  Herr  Leutnant  had  received  un- 
expected Christmas  leave  and  was  going  to  Ber- 
lin on  Thursday. 

But  there  was  a  capital  If.  If  passports 

The  lieutenant  said  these  must  be  procured  in 
Brussels  and  he  suggested  that  Herr  Fargo 
should  go  now  with  him ;  and  if  they  were  lucky 
in  finding  certain  officials  at  their  hotels  all 
might  be  arranged.  He  smiled  at  Madame  Fargo 
and  almost  winked;  but  she  was  unexpectedly 
obtuse  and  he  got  no  moment  alone  with  Yvonne. 
He  would  pay  madame  out  for  that,  he  thought, 
as  he  buttoned  his  overcoat  round  his  slim  waist. 

[200] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

The  old  Englishman,  toddling  out,  made  a  half 
circuit  about  him.  The  lieutenant  called  to  Herr 
Fargo  that  some  German  soldiers  would  be  bil- 
leted in  this  hotel  to  teach  people  manners.  He 
swaggered  off,  hatching  an  ingenious  plan.  He 
must  not  be  robbed  of  his  sweetheart  for  three 
days  even  by  "these  rather  decent  Yankees." 

Yvonne  and  Peggy,  alone  together,  never 
stopped  pretending  during  those  hard  hours  of 
suspense.  The  gate  to  freedom  for  Yvonne  and 
her  aunt  would  swing  ajar  that  night;  if  not  that 
night,  not  at  all.  Yet  no  intimate  glance  flashed ; 
no  confidential  word  was  exchanged.  Yvonne 
went  to  a  hot  bath,  Peggy  for  a  sharp  scamper 
up  and  down  the  avenue — their  different  ways 
of  carrying  on.  Peggy  reflected  for  a  few  min- 
utes over  a  new  anxiety.  She  had  refused  some 
offers  of  marriage,  had  evaded  others;  and  the 
men  refused  or  evaded  had  looked  at  her  as 
Roderick  Stoneman  had  looked  at  her  outside 
the  cathedral.  This  was  unexpected,  vexatious. 
It  must  be  stopped. 

When  she  came  in,  glowing,  breathless,  she 
received  a  faint  hint  of  what  it  means  to  be  sent 
to  Coventry.  She  was  not  cut,  for  she  knew  nq 
one;  but  she  was  ostentatiously  avoided.  She- 
got  a  glimmer  of  what  Yvonne  had  endured 

[201] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

She  was  spared  the  worst  ordeal,  for  the  dining- 
room  was  empty  when  she  and  Yvonne  sat  down 
to  a  belated  dinner. 

"They  hear  distant  guns  to-night,"  the  Swiss 
"waiter  said;  "the  first  in  six  weeks.  Everybody 
-believes  the  French  are  coming  nearer.  They 
say  the  Germans  have  mined  all  the  big  build- 
ings, to  blow  them  up ;  and  the  officers  are  pack- 
ing." That  was  the  way  everybody  talked  in 
Brussels  in  December,  1914. 

The  two  men  returned  at  nine  and  it  was  a 
great  relief  to  hear  that  they  had  had  dinner. 
The  lieutenant  was  in  tearing  spirits.  How 
splendid  a  game  war  was!  How  jolly  to  bend 
its  laws  to  the  needs  of  love.  To  lock  one  chap- 
eron up  in  Antwerp,  to  send  another  off  about 
her  business,  to  commandeer  a  sweetheart — these 
were  heady  triumphs  for  a  love-struck  youth. 

The  passports  had  been  promised,  he  told  them 
gleefully.  A  special  permit  had  also  been  given 
to  Herr  and  Frau  Fargo  to  return  to  Antwerp 
direct  from  the  convent.  That  would  save  two 
days,  and  they  could  be  in  Antwerp  for  to-mor- 
row's late  dinner.  .  .  .  Tuesday  to  photograph 
the  children  and  get  passes.  .  .  .  Wednesday,  off 
for  The  Hague.  Splendid,  wasn't  it,  to  get  to 

[202] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  BED-HAIRED  GIRL 

The  Hague  two  days  before  Christmas  Eve?  He 
beamed  on  the  smiling  Peggy. 

As  for  Belgian  subjects,  their  passports  could 
not  be  arranged  in  a  day  or  in  their  absence.  He 
flung  a  laughing  look  of  triumph  at  Yvonne.  A 
great  piece  of  luck;  Oberst  von  Schwabe  and 
Frau  von  Schwabe  were  returning  to  Antwerp 
with  him  in  his  auto.  A  special  permit  had  been 
obtained  for  Yvonne.  Splendid,  wasn't  it? 
Yvonne  would  go  with  him  now.  She  must  get 
ready  quickly.  Madame  von  Schwabe  was  wait- 
ing at  her  hotel.  An  instant  of  frozen  silence; 
then : 

"But  this  is  charming!"  from  unconquerable 
Yvonne;  she  nodded  gaily  to  Peggy  and  the 
two  rose  from  the  table. 

At  half-past  ten,  Peggy,  by  the  auto  outside 
the  hotel,  was  introduced  to  Frau  von  Schwabe, 
while  Stoneman  tucked  Yvonne  in  the  front  seat. 
The  auto  glided  away,  with  laughter  from 
Yvonne. 

"I  feel  as  though  I  had  flung  her  to  the 
wolves,"  Stoneman  said  as  they  turned  down 
the  avenue  for  a  walk. 

"The  pack  will  soon  be  yelping  behind  their 
own  barbed  wire,"  Peggy  encouraged  him. 

She  would  not  let  him  see  how  sorry  she  was 
[203] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

for  Yvonne;  how  sorry  for  him,  that  he  must 
stand  by  helpless,  while  conquerors  moved  him 
and  his  party  about  like  pawns.  He  told  her, 
with  hot  indignation,  of  the  visits  he  had  made 
that  night  on  military  and  civil  officials,  some 
swaggering,  some  blustering,  some  coldly  suspi- 
cious or  austere,  but  all  amused  and  pleased  to 
hear  of  an  approaching  marriage  between  a  Ger- 
man and  a  Belgian. 

She  learned  that  Yvonne  had  promised  to  go 
on  from  The  Hague  to  Berlin  and,  after  a  day 
with  the  lieutenant's  people,  return  to  Belgium 
with  the  lieutenant  by  way  of  Aix-la-Chapelle. 
His  mother  and  himself  would  meet  Yvonne  at 
the  Dutch  frontier. 

Peggy  laughed  at  the  idea  of  a  haughty  Ger- 
man lady  and  a  fuming  young  officer  waiting  in 
vain. 

"It  will  be  our  turn  then,"  she  cried.  "I'd  like 
to  go  to  the  border  and  gloat.  I'd  stand  just 
inside  the  Dutch  line  and  make  horrid  faces  at 
them.  I'd  act  just  like  a  cantankerous,  ill-bred 
kid,  and  laugh  at  a  raving  mother  and  a  mad 
son." 

Peggy  let  her  indignation  effervesce  by  talk- 
ing amusing,  half-bitter  nonsense.  When  she 
was  no  more  than  simmering  over  the  abduction 

[204] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

of  Yvonne  she  proceeded,  with  deft  twists  of  the 
talk,  to  place  blue  spectacles  over  the  too-expres- 
sive eyes  of  Roderick  Stoneman.  She  spoke  of 
Jack  Daintry.  Her  voice  trailed  in  melancholy 
cadences  and  dropped  into  confidential  murmurs. 
She  did  not  say  that  she  adored  Jack  Daintry  or 
that  they  were  engaged;  but  she  might  as  well 
have  shouted  both  untruths.  She  described  him 
with  fluttering  breaths  and  analyzed  him  in  quav- 
ering superlatives. 

She  applied  her  antidote  strongly,  for  Stone- 
man's  gaze  had  been  of  startling  intensity.  She 
felt,  as  she  went  on  talking,  that  she  was  doing 
more  than  nip  Roderick  Stoneman's  sentiment 
in  the  bud.  Jack  Daintry  became  to  her  a  kind 
of  invisible  policeman,  taking  the  place  of 
Yvonne.  She  saw  him  always  at  his  post  on  the 
morrow,  a  shadowy  but  effective  shield  against 
further  unguarded  glances.  She  was  surprised 
and  indignant  when  Stoneman  calmly  said  that 
in  his  country  they  did  not  approve  of  manages 
de  convenance. 

"He  does  not  care  for  you,"  he  explained,  "or 
he  never  would  have  let  you  come  here,  much 
less  have  helped  you  to  it." 

"If  he  had  refused,"  Peggy  said  haughtily,  her 
head  flung  back,  "we  should  have  been  strangers. 

[205] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

But  I  did  not  need  to  say  that.  He  was  glad- 
yes,  glad — to  do  what  I  wanted.  He  always 
would  be.  He  always  will  be." 

Roderick  Stoneman  knew  a  great  deal  about 
internal-combustion  engines  and  automobiles  and 
aeroplanes,  and  very  little  about  women.  But 
he  was  learning  very  fast.  It  so  chanced  that 
Peggy  had  pitched  on  the  wrong  man.  Stone- 
man, railing  to  Yvonne  about  the  madman  who 
had  helped  Peggy  come  to  Belgium,  had  been 
told  all  about  Jack  Daintry  and  all  about  his  en- 
gagement to  another  girl.  It  was  easy  to  see  why 
Peggy  had  invented  a  lover,  and  natural  for  a 
lover  to  draw  glowing  inferences.  Stoneman 
gravely  gave  confidence  for  confidence,  invented 
a  girl  in  California,  and  closely  followed  Peggy's 
methods  in  talking  of  her. 

He  did  it  so  well  that  Peggy  never  dreamed 
that  he  was  no  more  than  following  her  lead.  It 
could  not  easily  occur  to  her  that  this  somewhat 
silent,  very  earnest  and  straightforward  young 
American  could  suddenly  develop  a  subtlety  that 
matched  her  own ;  nor  could  she  suppose  that  his 
heart  was  singing  or  that  laughter  was  deeply 
hidden  as  he  murmured  throbbing  sentences  about 
his  California  sweetheart. 

"This  is  very  interesting,"  Peggy  said,  a  little 
[206] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

dryly.  "I  thought  your  only  anxiety  was  about 
your  mother's  anxiety." 

"There  are  some  things,"  the  sententious  Rod- 
erick answered,  "which  one  does  not  speak  of 
until — well,  you  know — to  a  sister,  you  might 
say,  that  you  think  a  lot  of." 

"I'm  glad  you  feel  that  way  about  me,"  Peggy 
assured  him ;  but  there  was  a  lack  of  earnest  con- 
viction in  her  utterance. 

"Oh,  from  the  first,"  he  said,  patting  her  hand 
with  a  brotherly  touch;  "and  it  grows." 

Peggy's  vexation  grew  as  she  reflected  on  that 
long,  long  look  outside  the  cathedral.  He  had 
been  staring  at  California  and  she  had  merely 
happened  to  be  in  range.  She  became  almost 
indignant  as  he  continued  to  expand  about  this 
California  girl  who  rode  and  shot  and  fished  and 
lassoed,  and  yet  kept  a  beautiful  complexion  and 
always  tidy  hair;  yellow  too. 

The  parting  in  the  hotel  lounge  was'  cool.  The 
elderly  Englishman  cut  Roderick  dead  and  a 
Belgian  lady  turned  her  back  on  Peggy. 

As  midnight  bells  struck,  Peggy  looked  down, 
from  the  little  balcony  outside  her  window,  on 
white-frosted  roofs  far  below,  exquisitely  silvered 
by  the  rays  of  the  moon;  on  a  shining,  brilliant 
capital,  which  seemed  lightly  resting  between 

[207] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

pleasures.    Entranced,  she   slightly  lifted  wide 
eyes  to  glittering  pinnacles  and  lustrous  domes 
crowning  the  fantastic  fairy  city.     Smiling  and 
dreaming   fairy   dreams   it   seemed   to   her,    as 
though  waiting  for  the  coming  of  its  king  in  that r 
merry  pageant  which  it  calls  La  Joyeuse  Entree. ' 
She  stood  rapt,  as  motionless  as  all  she  saw. 

She  became  conscious  of  a  vague  vibration, 
featherlight,  as  though  handfuls  of  soft  falling 
snow  faintly  jarred  the  balcony.  She  held  her 
breath,  intently  expectant,  and  knew  that  some 
spent,  recurrent  whisper  was  dying  at  her  ear. 
It  became  a  ghostly,  far-off  tolling,  ominous  in 
its  measured  minutes,  menacing  in  its  flat,  sullen 
note.  Nature  knew  no  such  sinister  precision,  and 
she  was  aware  that  she  had  heard  the  report  of 
a  heavy  gun,  miles  away.  Though  no  cloud  had 
spread,  it  seemed  to  Peggy  that  a  dark  shadow 
hung  over  pinnacle  and  dome  and  home ;  and  she 
crept  in,  chilled. 

She  slept  badly,  starting  up  now  and  again  to 
listen  for  that  morose,  murmured  thump  of  the 
air;  sometimes  she  heard  it  and  sometimes  she 
only  thought  she  did. 

She  was  called  in  the  early  morning  by  a 
chambermaid,  whose  manner  was  as  cold  as  the 
coffee  and  the  radiator;  and  these  penalties  for 

[208] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

having  been  pleasant  to  a  German  brought  on 
others.  Numbed  fingers  snapped  a  bootlace  and 
could  not  quickly  fasten  buttons ;  so  she  was  slow 
in  dressing.  The  result  of  these  discomforts  was 
a  bright  hour  for  Roderick  Stoneman;  for  she 
was  so  cross  that  she  knew  it,  guarded  against  it, 
and  forced  cheerfulness  on  so  high  a  note  that  she 
brought  brightness  to  a  sky  of  lead  and  a  dreary, 
thawing  landscape. 

Sentries  saluted,  but  did  not  stop  them,  as  they 
drove  past  the  suburbs  into  the  garden  heart  of 
Belgium,  where  intensive  culture  was  most  in- 
tensely practised  and  where  little  frames  of  glass 
dotted  the  small  rich  fields.  Man  had  fought 
with  Nature  here  through  long  generations,  not 
to  wring  a  bare  subsistence  for  himself  from  a 
reluctant  soil,  but  to  tickle  the  palates  of  the  epi- 
cures of  Europe  with  products  out  of  season. 
Luscious  Argenteuil  asparagus,  grown  a  month 
before  its  time  by  bent  peasants  who  worked 
from  dawn  to  sunset,  and  drawn  to  market  by 
the  wife  and  the  dog,  brought  two  francs  a  day 
to  its  grower  and  sold  for  four  dollars  a  portion 
in  London  hotels. 

At  last  a  sentry  stopped  them  and  Stoneman 
handed  out  his  special  pass.  He  glanced  at  a 
new  little  toy  village  composed  of  new  little  toy 

[209] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

huts,  all  fronted  by  new  little  toy  gardens,  in 
some  of  which  grew  trim  little  evergreen  shrubs. 
This  prim  German  order  brought  a  grin;  for 
these  toy  huts  held  no  toy  soldiers.  Grim  figures 
in  grey  lounged  in  heavy  overcoats,  or  worked, 
or  moved  heavily  about.  There  was  ludicrous 
incongruity  between  this  Noah's  Ark  village  and 
its  purposes  and  dwellers. 

Stoneman  half  rose,  rudely,  suddenly,  to  block 
Peggy's  view.  He  hoped  she  would  not  see  that 
great,  gashed,  round-roofed  building  beyond. 
He  examined  the  jagged  rent  in  the  roof  and  the 
gaping  hole  in  the  wall  with  professional,  unen- 
thusiastic  eyes.  The  sun  came  out  in  just  the 
right  place,  and  he  caught  the  glint  of  what 
seemed  scrap  iron  through  the  ragged  gap  in  the 
wall.  A  good  job,  thoroughly  done;  immense 
luck;  but 

"Please!    Please!" 

She  had  seen  then;  and  she  knew.  He  was 
compelled  to  make  way  for  her  and  he  resumed 
his  seat.  She  glanced  out;  then  shot  him  a  look 
from  kindled  eyes  that  made  him  feel  as  though 
the  Croix  de  Guerre  was  being  pinned  on  his 
breast.  But  he  was  only  the  more  depressed, 
as  though  it  was  bestowed  without  having  been 
earned. 

[210] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

He  heard  Peggy  pour  out  questions  in  Ger- 
man; then  saw  the  sentry  glance  furtively  about 
and  bring  out  a  little  piece  of  aluminum  tubing 
as  long  and  a  third  as  thick  as  a  slender  finger. 
For  this,  at  Peggy's  command,  he  handed  over 
twenty  marks  from  what  she  called  the  family 
purse. 

A  unique  experience  in  all  the  history  of  war 
probably — to  achieve  something  really  worth 
while,  something  big,  that  counted,  that  showed 
for  itself ;  and  then,  as  a  casual,  unsuspected  trav- 
eller, to  pass  the  scene  of  the  achievement  with 
the  one  woman  in  the  world ;  and  to  see  her  eyes 
as  she  looked  out;  and  to  hear  her  voice  throb- 
bing, thrilling,  as  she  tells  what  the  sentry  has 
said — a  new  Zeppelin,  the  latest  model,  injured 
beyond  repair.  The  effect  on  Roderick  was  to 
bring  a  flat  sinking  of  the  spirits. 

"Smashing  up,  destroying,"  he  flamed  in  sud- 
den anger;  "and  proud  of  it!  We're  like  mad- 
men. We  snatch  axes  and  break  up  the  furni- 
ture of  the  world.  To  see  it,  in  cold  blood,  like 
this- 

"In  cold  blood!"  Peggy  broke  in  indignantly. 
"And  is  that  all  you  see?  I  see  more;  lots  more. 
I  see  a  man  up  there  in  the  air,  alone,  risking 
his  life,  spurts  of  smoke  all  about  him;  calm, 

[211] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

cool,  flying  straight,  shooting  straight,  hitting; 
hitting  a  death  machine  that  but  for  him  might 
have  come  over  my  country,  killing  my  peo- 
ple. .  .  .  Oh,  I  have  no  patience  with  you!" 

She  scolded  him  roundly,  with  a  fierce,  proud 
pleasure,  glad  that  he  felt  just  as  he  did.  She 
was  glad,  because  he  was  a  hero  to  her,  and  she 
knew  that  she  would  grovel  if  his  mood  were 
different. 

"I've  made  things  all  my  life,"  he  said.  "I'm 
an  engineer;  a  constructive  person.  I'm  sick,  just 
dead  sick,  of  all  the  ruin  and  waste  and  destruc- 
tion. Men  construct;  children,  madmen  and 
fools  destroy.  That  roof  was  cleverly  trussed. 
A  real  man  did  that.  There  are  brains,  skill,  in- 
genuity, there,  and  I  come  along— 

"You  are  perverse,  hopeless!"  she  interrupted. 

She  railed  at  him.  She  had  seen  pictures  of 
English  babies  murdered  by  machines  like  that, 
she  told  him.  The  more  she  railed  the  more  she 
wanted  to  kneel  and  kiss  his  hand.  She  was  so 
grateful  to  him  for  preventing  this  that  she 
wanted  to  kiss  it  in  gratitude. 

Her  eyes  gave  the  lie  to  her  lips,  of  course, 
and  her  voice  was  traitor  to  her  tongue.  Rod- 
erick, intoxicated  by  love,  looked  owlishly  sober 
and,  talked  matter-of-fact  nonsense.  Only  thus 

[212] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

could  he  keep  control  of  himself  and  of  a  girl 
high-keyed  to  emotion  and  aflame  with  patriotic 
ardor  and — yes — with  admiration  for  him. 

The  country  changed  almost  as  though  they 
had  crossed  a  marked  line.  They  came  on  shell- 
torn  fields,  jagged  ruins  of  small  houses,  and 
debris  of  war. 

"The  Belgian  and  German  Armies  fought 
backward  and  forward  here,"  he  said. 

Peggy  thrust  the  little  tube  into  her  handbag. 

"I  have  that  trophy  for  Jack,"  she  said. 

"I  hoped,"  he  answered  in  his  deliberate  way, 
"that  you  would  spare  it  for  California." 

"She  has  the  better  claim,"  Peggy  said,  eying 
him — she  had  forgotten  the  girl  in  California — 
and  she  handed  it  over.  "I  should  like  to  write 
to  her  and  tell  her  what  I  have  seen." 

"I'll  give  you  Jennie's  address  when  we're  over 
the  border." 

"Jennie!   You  said  Millie- 

"She  was  christened  Millicent  Jane,"  he  ex- 
plained stolidly;  and  Peggy  still  believed  in  the 
existence  of  Millicent  Jane. 

An  American  girl  would  have  known  better; 
but,  then,  an  American  girl  similarly  placed 
would  have  been  equally  deceived  by  an  English- 
man. The  Englishman  would  lie  so  lamely  about 

[213] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

an  invented  sweetheart  that  the  American  girl 
would  think  the  detached  and  guarded  sentences 
the  difficult  efforts  of  a  reticent  nature  to  un- 
bosom its  cherished  secret.  Roderick  had  told 
his  story  with  an  apparent  naivete  and  wealth  of 
detail  that  had  instantly  carried  conviction.  It 
was  merely  efficiency.  He  had  wished  to  con- 
vince and  he  had  done  the  best  he  knew  how  to 
achieve  this. 

Peggy  reflected  on  the  letter  she  should  write 
to  Millicent  Jane.  That  girl,  even  if  she  was  six 
thousand  miles  away  and  neutral,  and  did  not 
really  understand  about  the  war  and  what  war 
meant,  should  understand  that  she  was  engaged 
to  a  real  man.  Peggy  closed  her  eyes  and  tried 
to  make  a  mental  picture  of  this  girl  on  the  Pa- 
cific Slope.  She  was  very  vague  about  the  precise 
locality  of  the  Slope,  but  not  about  the  character 
of  the  girl ;  and  she  felt  sorry  for  Roderick  Stone- 
man  and  piously  hoped  that  he  would  be  happy 
with  one  who,  even  from  his  own  description, 
was  not  worthy  of  him. 

The  carriage  stopped.  She  lifted  her  eyes  on 
open  iron  gates  in  a  high  brick  wall. 

"The  Convent!"  she  said  breathlessly.  "Oh, 
I  must  tell  them  who  I  am.  I  must  show  them 
how  splendid  I  think  them.  How  can  I  help  it?" 

[214] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

She  turned  appealing,  troubled  eyes  on  Rod- 
erick after  she  had  stepped  out  of  the  carriage. 
"They  will  want  to  know  that  he  is  safe  too." 

"Sav  what  you  like  to  whom  vou  will,"  an- 

v  •>  j 

swered  Roderick;  "but  get  the  children  out  here 
in  just  half  an  hour.  It's  a  long  way  to  Ant- 
werp." 

She  promised  and  went  in,  walking  slowly 
along  the  side  of  the  quadrangle,  watching  a 
ragged  man  greedily  drinking  hot  soup  under 
a  covered  archway,  a  queue  of  peasant  women 
to  whom  a  lay  sister  was  giving  small  brown 
loaves,  a  line  of  little  children  each  carrying  an 
empty  bowl.  The  soft  wind  whistled  oddly  as 
she  stood  on  the  glassed-in  porch  and  she  saw  that 
it  played  its  strange  tune  through  many  little 
round  shrapnel  holes  in  the  panes.  She  rang  the 
bell  and  turned,  wondering  whether  these  indom- 
itable women  had  carried  Geoffrey  through  the 
darkness  out  of  this  door  or  another.  A  lay  sis- 
ter opened  to  her,  anxious  in  the  first  moment, 
but  smiling  when  she  heard  Peggy's  errand. 

"Les  pauvres  petites!"  she  said.  "I  am  so  glad 
for  them.  Will  madame  enter?" 

She  led  the  way  into  an  austere  room,  whose 
white  walls  were  furrowed  by  a  shell  which  had 
left  great  gaps  in  coming  and  going  and  had  cut 
[215] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

away  the  lower  half  of  the  picture  of  the  new 
Pope.  Peggy  sat  looking  through  a  glass  door 
as  at  a  moving  picture.  Nuns  passed  to  and 
fro  in  silent  heelless  shoes.  They  were  dressed 
in  white  and  their  faces  were  framed  in  white 
coifs,  and  long  black  veils  drooped  over  them. 
She  wondered  which  had  nursed  Geoffrey 
and  whether  she  should  dare  to  speak  of  him. 
She  had  been  warned  by  Madame  Campion  that 
two  German  nuns  were  still  in  the  Convent  and 
that  few  knew  Geoffrey  had  lain  hidden  there. 

A  frail,  white-haired  nun  came,  Mere  St. 
Ursule,  who  explained  that  the  Reverend  Mother 
General  was  very  old  and  too  ill  to  receive  even 
so  welcome  a  visitor  as  Madame  Fargo.  The 
children — how  excited  they  were!  It  was  well 
that  they  were  going.  Food  was  getting  scarce. 
But  there  was  soup  and  a  morsel  of  bread  for 
madame  and  for  monsieur,  who  had  been  asked 
to  come  in. 

She  was  frankly  glad  when  she  heard  that  her 
visitors  had  a  lunch  basket.  There  were  thirty 
children  to  feed,  she  said,  and  they  must  give  to 
the  villagers  so  long  as  anything  was  left.  Yes, 
it  had  been  a  dreadful  time;  but  they  had  much 
reason  to  thank  the  good  God  who  had  spared 
them  such  horrors  as  Aerschot.  Two  battles  had 

[216] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

been  fought  about  and  over  them,  but  the  Ger- 
man Staff  had  made  headquarters  in  the  Convent 
and  had  protected  them  from  excesses  of  drunken 
soldiery;  but  not  so  in  the  village.  The  serene 
soft  voice  suddenly  faltered  and  the  faded  eyes 
filled  with  tears. 

"We  have  not  talked  about  it,"  the  thin  lips 
quavered;  "and  I  find  that  I  cannot— 

Mere  St.  Ursule's  head  sank  on  her  breast  and 
the  shaking  fingers  fumbled  with  her  beads. 

"You  took  care  of  some  wounded?"  said  Peggy 
cautiously. 

"Yes;  we  had  many  Belgian  wounded  when 
the  Germans  came,"  answered  the  nun.  "The 
Germans  said  that  a  shot  had  been  fired  from 
here  and  the  order  came  to  burn  the  house.  Our 
Mother  General  pleaded  while  the  officer's  pistol 
was  pointed  at  her  breast.  She  saved  the  build- 
ing, but  she  was  forced  to  promise  that  she  would 
receive  no  more  Belgian  wounded." 

"Reverend  Mother  General,"  Peggy  mur- 
mured, "made  no  promises  about  English 
wounded  ?" 

Mere  St.  Ursule  only  looked  blank. 

"Geoffrey  is  my  brother,"  Peggy  ventured. 

"Not— not  Peggy?" 

"Yes,  yes!" 

[217] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"But,  oh,  I  have  heard  so  much  of  you!" 

Peggy  caught  the  hand  of  the  nun  and  pressed 
her  lips  to  the  fingers,  hardened  and  cracked 
with  manual  labor. 

"He  is  safe!"  she  said,  breathlessly.  "May  I 
see  the  cellar,  do  you  think,  Mere  St.  Ursule?" 

"But  certainly.  Be  careful  what  you  say  in 
the  hall." 

Peggy  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"Ah,"  Mere  St.  Ursule  said,  eying  her,  "it  is 
splendid  to  see  you!  There  are  no  young  here 
any  more;  heads  and  shoulders  are  bowed,  and 
all  is  age  and  sorrow.  Come !" 

They  were  stopped  by  a  lay  sister. 

"Monseiur  Stoneman  is  gone,"  she  said.  "The 
coachman  says  a  German  private  came  and  took 
him  away  to  the  lieutenant.  The  lieutenant  sent 
for  him." 

"Monsieur  Stoneman?"  repeated  Peggy  in  a 
choked  voice.  "Where  did  you  get  that  name, 
sister?" 

"From  the  coachman,  madame.  It  is  the  name 
the  private  spoke,"  she  said. 

"Was  monsieur  arrested?"  Peggy  asked  from 
a  dry  throat. 

The  lay  sister  looked  down  and  then  glanced 
at  Mere  St.  Ursule  from  troubled,  bovine  eyes. 
[218] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"It  is  nothing,"  said  the  nun,  obviously  hiding 
anxiety.  "A  lieutenant  is  stationed  in  the  vil- 
lage. He  wished  to  look  at  the  passport — that 
is  all.  Is  it  your  husband,  Madame  Fargo?" 

"Yes,  Reverend  Mother.  They  have  made 
some  mistake.  Let  us  go  and  look  at  the  cellar." 

She  pretended  to  look  and  listen;  but  neither 
deceived  the  other.  Peggy  was  almost  certain 
that  the  Germans  had  known  all  the  time  and  had 
waited;  had  pounced  suddenly,  silently,  in  this 
hidden  corner  of  Belgium.  She  was  almost  sure 
she  should  not  see  Roderick  Stoneman  again,  and 
that  her  own  arrest  was  imminent. 

"This,"  said  Mere  St.  Ursule  after  they  had 
wound  round  dark,  underground  passages,  "was 
the  dungeon  of  Monsieur  le  Capitaine  Geoffrey. 
It  was  once  a  wine  cellar,  when  this  was  a  cha- 
teau. It  is  dry  and  warm.  His  bed  was  there. 
All,  he  was  fractious  sometimes!"  The  nun  held 
a  candle  high  over  her  head  and  it  threw  shad- 
ows down  over  her,  and  she  looked  in  the  gloom 
like  a  sibyl.  She  peered  at  Peggy  from  anxious 
eyes.  "He  is  safe,  you  say,  my  dear?" 

"Yes,  Mere  St.  Ursule;  in  Holland." 

"And  you  helped  hJn?" 

"Xo;  we  crossed." 

"But  you  came  to  help  him?" 
[219] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"Yes,  Mere  St.  Ursule." 

"I  do  not  understand  how  you  came;  but  I 
hope  your  papers  are  good  papers." 

"They  are,  Mere  St.  Ursule.  If  there  is  any 
trouble  it  is  not  about  my  brother,  and  nothing 
is  known  about  him  or  the  Convent.  Be  sure 
of  that,  please." 

"The  good  Lord  will  protect  the  Convent, 
said  the  nun,  leading  the  way  to  the  light.     "I 
think  only  of  you.    I  did  not  understand  that  you 
were  married." 

"Geoffrey  did  not  know,  Mere  St.  Ursule." 

A  little  girl  met  them  in  the  hall,  not  at  all 
shy,  but  very  prim,  very  sedate,  rosy-cheeked, 
with  two  swinging  pigtails. 

"Ah,"  said  Mere  St.  Ursule,  "la  petite  is  ready 
first.  And  doesn't  she  look  well?  It  is  Ellen 
Bates." 

With  calm  self-possession,  Ellen  said  "Yes, 
ma'am"  and  "No,  ma'am"  with  precise  utterance, 
and  frankly  studied  this  lady  who  had  come  to 
take  her  to  England. 

"Could  she  show  me  the  lieutenant's  house?" 
asked  Peggy,  unable  to  bear  suspense  longer. 
"I  will  take  the  passport.  It  may  be  wanted." 

"But  certainly.   Go  with  madame,  Ellen." 

Outside  in  the  village  street  the  sedate  Ellen 
[220] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

became  suddenly  a  bundle  of  wires.  She  clung 
to  Peggy's  hand,  dancing,  skipping. 

"I'm  so  excited!"  she  cried.  "Oh,  all  the  girls 
are  just  dying  of  envy — Belgians  and  all.  Look 
at  my  sleeves;  they  hardly  cover  my  wrists,  do 
they?  But  I  can't  help  growing,  can  I?  And  I 
couldn't  get  anything  from  home.  I  can't  get 
into  my  jacket  at  all.  You'll  be  ashamed  of  me 
and  I'll  be  cold;  but  that  doesn't  matter. 

"Oh,  it's  been  such  fun  playing  hide-and-seek 
in  the  trenches !  The  Belgian  trenches  were  most 
fun.  They  were  better  made.  They  had  more 
time.  See;  there's  a  line  of  them  out  there,  where 
those  little  boys  are  playing  marbles.  It  was 
funny,  wasn't  it?  The  German  trenches  were 
full  of  little  frogs,  and  there  isn't  one  in  the  Bel- 
gian trenches. 

"I  think  it  is  lovely  of  you  to  come  for  us. 
I've  got  a  Belgian  cap  and  a  cartridge  and  lots 
of  small  cartridge  shells;  but  we  found  so  many 
things  that  we  stopped  collecting.  I  tried  to  get 
a  German  helmet;  but  I  didn't  like  to  take  it 
off  a  grave,  so  I  haven't  one. 

"The  nuns  wouldn't  let  us  out  of  the  grounds1 
for  six  weeks.  Wasn't  it  mean  of  them?  The 
sky  would  be  all  red  with  burning  houses  and  we 
used  to  sneak  out  of  bed  and  watch  the  glow; 

[221] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

and  we  couldn't  go  out  the  next  day  to  see  which 
cottages  had  been  burned.  And  we  stayed  in  the 
cellars  for  thirteen  days  when  the  armies  were 
fighting;  but  we  had  hot  meals  every  day. 
Wasn't  it  good  of  the  nuns  ?  They  cooked  in  the 
kitchen  while  the  shells  were  flying  over. 

"An  English  shell  fell  in  the  cure's  garden; 
but  it  didn't  explode;, and  the  Germans  kicked 
it;  but  we  English  girls  hugged  and  kissed  it 
and  sang  'God  Save  the  King!'  right  under  the 
German  colonel's  window.  He  looked  out  and 
laughed.  He  was  rather  a  good  sort,  that  man; 
and  we  called  him  uncle.  That  was  when  the 
Belgians  came  out  of  Antwerp  on  a  saute.  We 
did  laugh  one  day.  They  were  bringing  the  Ger- 
man wounded  in  and  one  of  the  nuns  wanted 
another  mattress;  and  she  went  to  a  pile  and 
there  was  a  German  soldier,  hidden.  He  said  he 
had  a  headache;  but  we  all  had  headaches  that 
day  from  the  noise.  We  all  prayed  that  day 
till  our  mouths  were  dry. 

"A  German  officer  came  down  while  we  were 
praying;  and  he  said:  'That's  right!  Go  on  pray- 
ing.' He  looked  so  frightened;  and  so  did  we, 
I  suppose.  They  wouldn't  let  us  little  girls  help 
nurse.  Some  .of  the  older  girls  helped,  but  they 
wouldn't  tell  us  anything.  It  was  rather  horrid 

[222] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

going  along  the  corridors,  there  was  so  much 
blood  about.  Oh,  we  did  laugh,  one  day!" 

Breathless,  little  Ellen  danced  away  to  a  sen- 
try who  stood  before  a  cottage  that  bore  no  mark 
of  shot  or  fire.  She  saluted,  with  a  laugh,  and 
the  sentry  grinned. 

"Headquarters!"  little  Ellen  cried  over  her 
shoulder,  and  darted  through  the  doorway;  she 
came  back  with  the  word  that  the  house  was 
empty. 

"I  do  not  understand.  I  do  not  know."  The 
sentry  had  no  other  answers  for  Peggy's  ques- 
tions. 

A  little  Belgian  girl,  hardly  older  than  Ellen, 
wheeling  a  barrow  of  manure,  spoke  only  Flem- 
ish, and  could  only  point  to  the  north;  an  old 
crone  did  the  same ;  the  little  boys,  playing  mar- 
bles, stretched  thin  arms  up  the  road. 

The  two  coachmen,  for  a  second  carriage  had 
followed  the  first  to  hold  the  children,  had  not 
seen  what  had  become  of  monsieur.  Did  they 
think  that  monsieur  had  been  arrested? 

"A  soldier  came  and  took  him  away,"  said  one. 

Three  more  little  Ellens  came,  pigtailed,  prim, 
out  of  the  Convent  gates,  sizzling  with  bot- 
tled excitement,  hugging  small  bundles,  all 
dressed  in  black,  all  with  sleeves  too  short,  two 

[223] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

without  cloaks.  Behind  them  came  the  nuns,  half 
a  dozen  of  them,  all  smiling,  all  glad  at  the  es- 
cape of  the  last  of  the  English,  some  blinking 
back  tears  as  they  kissed  chubby  faces ;  all  proud 
of  the  round  red  cheeks  of  the  children. 

Peggy,  despite  preoccupations,  was  struck  by 
the  contrasting  lean  pallor  of  the  nuns.  She  saw 
how  they  had  denied  themselves  that  the  little 
ones  should  know  no  stint  and  that  the  villagers 
should  have  a  bite.  Of  what  use  to  them  was  the 
two  thousand  francs  in  the  envelope  in  her  hand  ? 

"For  your  needy  ones,  dear  Mere  St.  Ursule," 
she  said,  handing  over  the  envelope;  "and  I 
brought  a  basket,  too,  exclusively  for  you  and 
for  the  Reverend  Mother.  It  is  left  on  the  sole 
condition  that  you  keep  it  for  yourselves." 

Peggy  was  sure  that  unworldly,  unselfish  eyes 
gloated  for  a  flashing  instant  as  the  coaehman 
brought  out  a  basket  the  weight  of  which  bent 
him  down.  The  children  sighed  happily  at  the 
sight  of  so  much  food,  not  knowing  that  their 
afternoon  meal  was  thus  lost  to  them. 

"Where  is  monsieur?"  Mere  St.  Ursule  whis- 
pered. 

Peggy  pointed  toward  the  north. 

"I  shall  go  that  road,"  she  said,  "and  find 
out." 

[224] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

The  children  all  stood  up  and  waved  good-bye 
as  the  carriage  drove  off;  and  the  nuns  watched 
them  out  of  sight. 

"How  awfully  jolly!"  said  Ellen.  "But  must 
we  leave  Mr.  Fargo?" 

"I  hope  not,"  Peggy  answered.  "If  we  can't 
find  out  where  he's  gone  we  must  turn  back." 

"Oh,  that  would  be  horrid!"  Ellen  said. 
"You're  frightfully  pale,  Mrs.  Fargo." 


[225] 


X 


To  San  Francisco  had  come,  in  1890,  a  ruined 
German  officer,  bringing  with  him  his  wife  and 
an  infant  son.  The  child  had  become  an  orphan 
in  his  fifth  year  and  had  been  taken  into  the  home 
of  a  New-England-born  lady,  who  had  learned 
brilliant  piano  execution  at  Leipsic.  Later  he 
had  been  sent  to  a  public  school  in  which,  at  the 
taxpayers'  expense,  he  had  been  taught  German 
for  one  hour  each  day.  In  his  rich  American 
home  his  toys  had  been  German,  his  first  reading 
"Grimm's  Fairy  Tales"  and,  later,  beautiful  Ger- 
man folklore  stories,  lovely  German  legends,  and 
dark,  mysterious  accounts  of  the  doings  of  Ger- 
man gods  and  goddesses.  At  twelve  the  boy  had 
joined  a  Turnverein,  because  the  gymnasium  had 
been  so  well  equipped.  At  fifteen  he  had  be- 
longed to  a  German  target-shooting  club,  where 
the  discipline  had  been  semi-military,  and  had 
played  second  violin  in  an  amateur  German  mu- 
sical organization  founded  by  his  American  fos- 
ter-mother. 

At  twenty-one  he  had  become  a  naturalized 
[226] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

American  citizen.  Politically  an  enthusiastic 
American,  he  was  emotionally,  spiritually  and  in 
sentiment  a  German.  He  was  grateful  to  his 
American  foster-parents,  and  to  American  tax- 
payers and  schools,  for  having  fostered  and  e^ 
couraged  his  German  culture.  He  often  told  his 
German  friends  over  a  tall  glass  of  Culmbacher 
beer,  of  which  he  was  very  fond,  that  his  good 
luck  had  been  incredible.  If  things  had  gone  a 
little  differently  he  might  not  have  known  a  word 
of  German,  or  ever  recalled  that  he  was  of  Ger- 
man birth. 

At  twenty-four  his  American  foster-father 
had  died  and  left  him  a  few  thousand  dollars,  and 
he  had  promptly  gone  to  Germany  on  a  visit, 
hugging  his  American  passport,  proud  of  his 
American  citizenship,  romantically  happy  in  the 
chance  to  see  the  home  country  of  his  dreams,  and 
eagerly  hoping  for  a  friendly  reception  from 
grandparents  who  had  ignored  his  existence.  He 
had  arrived  in  Hanover  in  June,  1914,  and  it 
was  he  who  had  summoned  Roderick  Stoneman 
and  now  walked  with  him  in  silence  out  of  the 
village  toward  the  north. 

The  German  turned  suddenly,  looked  nerv- 
ously about,  and  then  held  out  a  hand  that  burned 
hot  in  Stoneman's  grasp. 
[227] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"Do  you  know  me?"  he  demanded. 

Stoneman  looked  at  the  haggard  eyes,  at  the 
black  pouches  beneath,  at  the  twitching  mouth. 
The  German  broke  into  a  harsh  laugh. 

"Think  of  a  fat,  blue-eyed  boy,"  he  said;  "an 
American  boy  that  American  schools  and  Amer- 
ican people  made  into  a  German — more  German 
than  the  Germans,  because  I  looked  across  half 
the  world  and  saw  only  the  romance  and  charm 
and  heard  only  the  music  of  it.  They  caught  me 
in  the  glow  and  ardor  of  my  first  visit  to  the 
homeland."  He  repeated  the  word  with  a  curl- 
ing lip.  "I  went  faint,  Stoneman.  The  drums 
beat ;  the  bugles  sounded.  I  jumped  at  the  chance 
of  a  commission." 

"Tiedermann,"  said  the  surprised  and  relieved 
Stoneman. 

They  came  to  the  top  of  a  little  hill,  and  the 
German  looked  all  about  him  again  and  saw 
that  there  could  be  no  hidden  listeners.  He 
caught  Stoneman' s  arm. 

"Look  here!"  he  burst  out.  "It's  good  to  see  a 
white  man.  You  must  help  me.  You  must  get 
me  out  of  this.  It's  up  to  you.  It's  the  United 
States  or  the  firing  squad  for  me.  See  the  sena- 
tors from  California.  See  the  State  Department. 
It  may  work.  I  was  naturalized  in  Superior 

[228] 


THE  WHITE  HOKSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

Court  ISTumber  One  on  the  twelfth  of  April, 
1911.  Stick  that  date  in  your  brain.  I'll  give  you 
three  months.  If  your  ambassador  hasn't  got  me 
out  by  then — March  the  thirty-first;  that's  the 
date — I'm  done!  I  can't  herd  with  barbarians 
longer  than  that.  My  God!"  He  flung  out  his 
hands. 

"Of  course,  Tiedermann ;  of  course!  I'll  do 
what  I  can.  I'm  not  going  straight  back;  but 
I'll  set  the  wires  working  as  soon  as  I  get  into 
Holland." 

They  discussed  details.  Hope  sprang  up  in 
the  heart  of  the  despairing  man.  He  looked  at 
Stoneman  from  eyes  less  haunted  and  said 
eagerly  as  they  turned : 

"We  must  come  in,  Stoneman;  we  must  help 
to  save  the  world.  We  don't  understand.  Our 
country  must — before  it  is  too  late." 

Stoneman  agreed  most  heartily,  and  listened 
to  impassioned  words  from  an  ardent  Ameri- 
can, who  forgot  for  five  minutes  that  he  wore  a 
German  uniform.  But  the  sight  of  two  carriages 
in  the  distance  brought  the  lieutenant  sharply 
up. 

"Your  wife?"  he  asked. 

Stoneman  nodded. 

[229] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"I  can't  meet  her,  Stoneman.  I  wouldn't  dare 
to  shake  hands  with  her." 

"She,  too,  will  want  to  help  you,"  Stoneman 
said,  trying  to  soothe  him. 

The  man  was  staring  down  the  road  and  the 
muscles  of  his  jaws  were  twitching. 

"I  can  never  look  an  American  woman  in  the 
face  again."  His  voice  trailed  away. 

Stoneman  put  a  steadying  hand  on  his  shoul- 
der; but  Tiedermann  shook  it  off. 

"I  told  you  I  went  faint,"  he  ran  on.  "When 
I  came  to  myself  my  sword  was  stuck  in  my  scab- 
bard. I  pulled  it  out,  rusty  red,  moist,  oozing 
still  by  the  hilt — and  stuck  to  the  blade  was  a 
woman's  hair — a  long  white  hair!" 

He  stopped  and  looked  into  Stoneman's  face; 
then  turned  suddenly  and,  without  even  a  nod, 
muttering,  walked  off  into  a  field  path.  Five 
minutes  later,  little  Ellen  cried  with  obvious  dis- 
appointment : 

"Oh,  that's  him,  I  suppose!"  She  was  disap- 
pointed at  so  tame  an  ending  of  a  mystery. 

Stoneman  came  sauntering  up,  smoking  a 
cigarette. 

"Hello,  little  girls!  I'm  Uncle  Monty.  Re- 
member that,  all  of  you.  Now  can  I  trust  you  to 
ride  by  yourselves  for  five  miles  and  not  fall  out, 

[230] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

and  not  try  to  climb  up  by  the  driver,  and  not 
sing  'Yankee  Doodle'?" 

"We  don't  know  it,  thank  you!"  said  Ellen 
with  dignity. 

"Oh,  of  course  not!    I  beg  your  pardon." 

"But  you  can  trust  us,"  said  Ellen.  "We  have 
been  rather  well  brought  up,  you  know." 

Stoneman  laughed  and  looked  at  Peggy.  Her 
eyes,  against  her  will,  told  how  anxious  she  had 
been. 

"Everything  is  all  right,"  he  said  quickly. 

She  bent  forward,  looking  as  directly  at  him  as 
she  had  on  the  night  he  had  entered  the  dining- 
room  at  Antwerp.  His  eyes  answered  as  they 
had  then;  and  Peggy  settled  back,  sure  that  he 
told  the  truth.  She  hid  a  smile  at  his  change  of 
expression  when  she  told  Ellen  to  go  with  him 
to  the  other  carriage.  She  said  they  could  not 
leave  the  children  by  themselves,  and  that  Ellen 
was  sure  to  interest  him.  The  child  was  on  the 
ground  before  Peggy  had  finished  speaking  and 
danced  down  the  road  to  the  other  carriage.  She 
snuggled  into  his  fur  coat  with  a  murmur  of  con- 
tent. He  exclaimed  at  her  frozen  hands  and 
clasped  them. 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  she  said.  "It's  just  living 
a  fairy  story  and  I  don't  know  I'm  cold.  It's  so 

[231] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

splendid  to  wake  up  every  morning  and  never 
know  what's  going  to  happen;  not  like  it  used 
to  be  when  everything  was  just  so,  and  I  had 
bread  and  butter  for  breakfast,  and  then  a  music 
lesson — I  rather  liked  my  music  teacher,  if  she 
did  rap  my  knuckles — and  then  recitations  and 
study  and  dinner,  and  a  walk,  and  everything 
always  just  the  same,  till  every  day  seemed  like 
yesterday  and  I  didn't  care  whether  to-morrow 
ever  came,  because  it  was  just  to-day  over  again. 
It's  such  fun ;  and  two  horses  in  the  carriage,  too, 
and  a  fur  coat  like  a  soft  bear.  She  looked  round 
everywhere,  and  she  was  frightfully  pale;  and 
when  she  saw  you  she  just  leaned  back  and  did 
like  this" — the  child  drew  a  deep  long  breath — 
"and  she  put  her  hands  up  to  her  face ;  and  when 
she  took  it  down  she  wasn't  pale  any  more;  and 
I  think  she  was  very  anxious  before,  but  not 
anxious  any  more  now.  But  everybody  is,  of 
course,  most  of  the  time  in  war.  I  know  all  us 
girls  felt  it  very  much.  You  are  her  husband, 
aren't  you?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

"Then  why  do  they  call  you  Mr.  Stoneman 
and  not  Mr.  Fargo?" 

"My  name  is  Montague  Stoneman  Fargo." 

"Rather  funny — that  coachman  calling  you  by 
[232] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

your  middle  name,  isn't  it?  Mrs.  Fargo  is  very 
beautiful.  Her  eyes  are  luminous." 

"They  are,  Ellen.  Where  did  you  get  that 
word?" 

"Oh,  one  of  the  older  girls  had  a  story-book 
and  read  me  a  chapter  one  day  in  the  cellar  when 
I  was  off  my  feed  and  gave  her  my  soup.  She 
was  rather  a  greedy  girl.  She  wasn't  supposed 
to  have  a  story-book;  but  she  read  it  on  the  sly 
and  cried  so  much  that  the  nuns  pitied  her  a  bit. 
They  thought  she  was  frightened  by  the  shells. 
She  was  a  bit  silly,  I  think;  but  I  loved  hearing 
her  read,  for  she  put  so  much  feeling  into  it. 
Mrs.  Fargo  loves  you  very  much,  doesn't  she?" 

"She  is  what  is  called  reticent,  Ellen.  Do  you 
know  what  that  means?" 

"Oh,  yes.  I  must  say  she  doesn't  look  it.  Nuns 
are  reticent;  very  reticent,  aren't  they?  Mrs. 
Fargo  doesn't  act  like  a  nun,  does  she?  But 
that's  silly  of  me,  isn't  it?  Because  nuns  and 
ladies  are  different,  aren't  they?  And  that's 
silly,  too,  because  nuns  are  ladies,  aren't  they? 
Most  of  them.  But  ladies  are  not  nuns.  I  get 
hopelessly  mixed  up  sometimes,  because  words 
are  so  funny  and  don't  mean  what  I  mean;  but 
you  understand,  don't  you,  Uncle  Montj^?  I 
say,  you  won't  mind  my  asking,  will  you?  But 
[233] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  EED-HAIRED  GIRL 

I  simply  can't  help  it.  I  suppose  it  was  speak- 
ing of  the  soup;  but  do  you  know  where  we  are 
going  to  get  dinner?" 

There  was  such  eager  effort  to  repress  eager- 
ness in  this  inquiry  that  Stoneman  quickly  ex- 
plained about  the  large  lunch  basket  in  the  other 
carriage. 

"Were  there  two  baskets?"  asked  Ellen,  sit- 
ting up. 

"No;  but  the  one  held  a  lot.  We'll  stop  now 
and  find  out  what's  in  it." 

"No,  please;  I'm  not  hungry.  I  was  only 
asking."  She  nestled  back  into  the  soft  fur. 

"But  it's  one  o'clock." 

"I  couldn't  eat  a  mouthful,"  she  declared. 
"They'll  stop  when  they  want  it." 

The  front  carriage  did  stop  in  every  village 
and  then  went  on  again  after  a  talk  between  the 
drivers  and  dwellers;  but  it  was  not  until  the 
fourth  pause  that  Stoneman  drove  alongside  and 
learned  of  the  disappearance  of  the  lunch  basket. 
There  was  nothing  for  it  but  a  dash  to  Malines 
and  a  combined  lunch  and  tea  there. 

It  was  at  Malines  that  Peggy  was  recognized 
by  a  German  teacher  of  ten  years  before,  who 
now  appeared  as  a  lieutenant  of  the  Landwehr, 
short,  stout,  and  as  absent-minded  as  ever.  Pre- 

[234] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

sented  to  Herr  Fargo,  he  sent  the  children  into 
fits  of  laughter  by  his  congratulations  to  Frau 
Fargo  on  looking  so  young  with  such  a  fine- 
growing  family.  He  took  tea  with  them,  telling 
of  his  own  granddaughters  in  Munich,  not  notic- 
ing the  stiff  civility  with  which  the  little  girls  lis- 
tened to  the  tale  of  a  Christmas  tree  in  prepara- 
tion for  German  children.  After  the  war,  he 
said,  he  should  come  back  to  England  and  teach 
again;  and  his  daughter  and  her  children  would 
come  too,  for  they  had  lost  their  father  in  the 
war.  The  little  girls  looked  at  one  another  and 
Ellen  tossed  her  head.  The  unfortunate  struggle 
would  soon  be  over,  he  said;  and  he  hoped  that 
Frau  Fargo,  "such  a  brilliant  pupil,"  would  give 
him  support  and  patronage  in  establishing  his 
connections  again. 

"She  will  be  in  the  United  States,  with  me," 
Stoneman  explained  calmly,  not  looking  up. 

Peggy  shot  a  look  at  him. 

"I  am  going  to  visit  a  lady  in  California,"  she 
said,  a  little  tartly.  "She  is  going  to  teach  me  to 
throw  a  lasso." 

Herr  Bolander  looked  wistfully  at  the  chil- 
dren as  they  went  out  to  the  carriage.  To  Ellen 
he  said:  "You  remind  me  of  my  little  girl."  He 
stooped  to  kiss  her. 

[235] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"Go  away,  you  German!"  she  said,  shrinking. 

He  looked  pathetically  at  Peggy. 

"But  why?"  he  asked.  "War  is  not  for  chil- 
dren." 

"You  Germans  have  made  it  so!"  flamed 
Ellen. 

As  the  carriage  drove  off  he  muttered  to  him- 
self that  English  children  were  as  ill-bred  as  ever. 

Stoneman,  exhausted  by  listening,  had  Eunice 
Milsom  now,  a  blue-eyed  dormouse  who  slept  in- 
side his  arm  all  the  way  to  Antwerp. 

They  found  Clothilde  alone.  Madame  Cam- 
pion and  Mademoiselle  Yvonne,  she  said,  had 
gone  to  a  dinner  party  given  by  Frau  von 
Schwabe  in  honor  of  the  engagement  of  made- 
moiselle. Madame  had  left  word  that  the  Bel- 
gian passports  were  in  order  and  that  they  were 
all  to  leave  for  Holland  on  Wednesday  morning. 

An  hour  later  the  children  were  having  a  fero- 
cious pillow  fight  upstairs.  Downstairs  Peggy 
was  telling  Roderick  about  the  diamonds  of  the 
Brazilian,  hidden  beneath  the  stones  of  a  cellar 
floor. 

"I'll  get  them,"  he  said.  "That's  three  things 
to  do — passports,  diamonds  and  return  a  stolen 
fur  coat." 

Peggy  listened  to  the  noise  overhead. 
[236] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"The  children  were  only  the  excuse,"  she  said. 
"I  feel  now  as  if  they  were  the  important  thing." 
She  laughed  as  the  children's  happy  laughter 
floated  down  to  them  and  the  little  German  dog 
yapped  joyously.  "It  has  all  been  a  perfect  suc- 
cess," she  said. 

Roderick  nodded  and  looked  at  her  covertly. 
It  would  not  be  a  perfect  success  for  him  unless 
he  won  something  more  than  freedom. 

On  Wednesday  morning,  Leutnant  von 
Schmiedell,  dreaming  of  his  Berlin  holiday  with 
Yvonne,  received  a  message  cancelling  his  leave. 
Christmas  in  Antwerp  alone,  without  Yvonne! 
He  banged  his  desk  with  a  clenched  fist.  Leut- 
nant Strobell,  passing,  saw  it.  This  bitter- 
tongued  brother  officer,  with  a  round  head  and  a 
skin  like  an  old  boot,  nodded  and  said: 

"I  should  think  so!  You  are  trusting,  my  in- 
nocent youth.  I  was  at  the  Station  Centrale  and 
saw  that  you  opened  the  cage  to  all  the  birds  at 
once.  Suppose  they  don't  come  back?  Is  that 
why  you  hit  the  furniture?"  His  laugh  was  a 
sneer. 

"Your  tongue  is  always  poison." 

"Should  it  be  honey  for  a  Yankee  who  mocks 
the  German?"  Strobell  asked.  "I  heard  him  talk 

[237] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

of  the  German  drumbeat  round  the  world  and 
the  wine  circling  the  table  in  the  German  way. 
You — you  got  red,  you  were  so  pleased.  I — I 
got  red  with  just  anger.  His  tongue  was  in  his 
cheek." 

"You  blushed?  Ah,  wonderful!"  Von  Schmie- 
dell  stared  at  the  other's  dark  skin.  Strobell 
scowled  and  turned  on  his  heel. 

Christmas — Antwerp — no  Yvonne !  The  lieu- 
tenant eyed  the  telephone.  He  thought  of  Frau 
Schwabe's  silly  little  Christmas  tree  at  the  hotel; 
but  how  if  Yvonne  was  there?  He  fingered  the 
telephone  stand;  Yvonne  among  Germans, 
where  she  ought  to  be,  under  the  wing  of  a  blind, 
kind  chaperon,  and  her  tiresome  aunt  away  off 
at  The  Hague;  he  pulled  the  stand  toward  him. 
Did  he  dare?  Strobell's  words — "all  the  birds 
at  once" — that  should  be  his  excuse.  He  smiled ; 
the  commander  would  know  he  had  no  distrust  of 
Yvonne,  would  understand  the  little  trick,  would 
be  amused.  He  called  up  the  station  at  Esschen. 

Mademoiselle  Duberge's  passport  was  can- 
celled, he  said.  She  was  to  be  treated  with  high 
courtesy  and  told  that  Leutnant  von  Schmie- 
dell  was  coming  immediately  in  his  car  to  bring 
her  back  to  Frau  von  Schwabe's  care.  Yes,  the 
others  of  the  party  were  free  to  go.  Leutnant 

[238] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

von  Schmiedell  greatly  regretted  the  incident,  but 
had  not  been  able  to  prevent  it. 

He  hung  up  the  receiver  with  a  joyous  laugh. 
War  was  wonderful!  How  pleased  Yvonne 
would  be! — after  the  first  five  minutes.  She 
would  rather  be  with  him  than  buy  clothes,  of 
course.  What  a  jolly  lark! 

At  Esschen  happy  Peggy  marshalled  her  ex- 
cited little  flock  into  the  train.  She  laughed  as 
Madame  Campion's  hand  was  pressed  firmly  on 
the  lips  of  little  Ellen;  as  Clothilde  muzzled 
Eunice  Milsom.  She  closed  the  door  on  them 
in  their  crowded  compartment  and  glanced  along 
the  shining  rails  toward  freedom  and  the  neutral 
zone,  only  a  few  yards  away.  She  turned,  with 
an  exultant  smile,  and  got  into  the  next  carriage. 
Yvonne  would  come  in  a  minute;  it  was  like 
Yvonne  to  linger  for  a  last  courteous  word  with 
the  polite  officer  in  command  of  the  station. 

Radiant  Peggy  thought  of  Geoffrey  and  of  the 
meeting  that  evening.  She  had  seen  him  last  sit- 
ting in  this  very  train  in  which  she  sat;  and  she 
remembered  how  bitterly  she  rebelled  that  she 
could  not  turn  back.  How  glad  she  was  now 
that  she  had  been  forced  to  go  on!  What  great 
things  she  had  been  able  to  do  in  those  few 
crowded  days!  Roderick  Stoneman  that  morn* 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

ing  had  told  her  that  she  was  Moses  and  Joshua 
in  one ;  she  was  leading  a  people  out  of  bondage 
and  into  a  promised  land.  She  drew  a  deep 
breath  and  opened  her  eyes  to  find  him  standing 
by  the  door,  looking  at  her  just  as  he  had  looked 
at  her  by  the  Church  of  St.  Gudule.  Her  eyes 
dropped  under  his  intense,  significant  scrutiny. 
He  slammed  the  door  between  them. 

"Sit  still!"  he  ordered  abruptly,  but  in  a  whis- 
per. He  thrust  her  handbag  and  a  parcel 
through  the  open  window.  The  train  began  to 
move.  He  stepped  on  the  footboard.  " Yvonne 
has  been  stopped  by  telephone!"  he  said  hurried- 
ly. "I'll  see  her  through — outside  Turnhout — 
to-night."  He  got  off. 

Startled  Peggy  leaped  to  the  window.  The 
parcel  fell  and  broke,  and  her  feet  crunched  on 
scattered  diamonds.  She  saw  him,  standing,  look- 
ing toward  her.  Beyond  was  Yvonne,  and  a  hand- 
kerchief floated  from  her  high  upraised  hand. 

Something  flung  from  the  next  carriage  flew 
across  Peggy's  window — a  dog's  blanket,  edged 
with  mauve.  She  heard  the  dog  yapping  cheerily. 
She  heard  madame  cry:  "Le  Roi  et  Victoire!" 
Exultant  children's  voices  shouted:  "God  save 
the  King!"  Peggy  sank  back  in  grief  too  deep 
for  tears. 

[240] 


XI 


Behind,  on  the  station  platform,  Yvonne  stood 
gazing  from  still,  wide  eyes  toward  forbidden 
freedom.  Stoneman  came  and  thrust  his  arm 
through  hers  and  walked  her  fast  up  and  down 
the  long  stretch.  She  was  so  slight  that  he  almost 
lifted  her  in  turning,  and  she  began  to  pant 
breathlessly,  as  a  tired  child  might. 

"That's  good,"  he  encouraged.  "Pump  blood 
into  your  cheeks  and  rage  into  your  heart.  You 
must  be  in  a  white-hot  rage,  you  know,  and  make 
him  do  just  what  we've  planned." 

She  answered,  with  a  tang  in  her  voice  that 
reassured  him: 

"Oh,  yes;  I  can  be  angry.  I  can  be  myself — 
at  last." 

"Fine!"  he  answered.  "Now  I'll  wait  on  the 
other  side,  so  you  can  have  it  out  with  him 
alone." 

She  nodded  and  released  his  arm.  He  looked 
into  her  face  ere  he  turned,  and  she  raised  her 
head  and  smiled.  He  left  her,  sure  that  she 
would  not  fail  in  her  part.  He  hummed  a  tune  as 

[241] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

he  crossed  the  rails — "Over  the  Border  and  Far 
Away."  He  was  happy  because  Peggy  was  safe 
and  because  there  was  something,  at  last,  for  him 
to  do.  He  was  the  alert,  cool  airman  now.  He 
smiled  when  a  sentry,  with  diagonally  crossed 
rifle,  barred  his  egress  from  the  station.  He 
paced  up  and  down,  watching  the  road  for  an 
approaching  motor  car.  Sometimes  he  looked 
across  at  that  wonderful  fur-clad  girl.  In  the 
instant  in  which  she  had  been  told  she  was  not  to 
go  she  had  planned  that  the  rest  should  not  know. 

"My  aunt  would  stay,"  she  had  said ;  "a  useless 
sacrifice." 

This  was  shining  heroism.  She  was  worthy  of 
Peggy.  They  were  a  pair,  he  thought ;  amazing, 
splendid ! 

The  auto  came  at  last,  and  there  was  no  chauf- 
feur. So  far,  so  good.  Stoneman  met  the  young 
lieutenant  with  a  j  ovial  greeting,  which  was  cool- 
ly received.  He  could  not  leave  mademoiselle 
alone,  of  course,  he  explained.  He  understood 
that  these  things  must  happen  in  wartime,  and 
one  must  put  up  with  them. 

Now  that  the  lieutenant  had  come  in  person  he 
felt  that  mademoiselle  was  in  safe  hands.  For 
himself,  all  he  asked  was  a  lift  as  far  as  Ant- 
werp. He  could  not  get  a  train.  He  could  not 

[242] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

move  a  foot  in  any  direction,  because  his  wife 
had  the  passports.  He  must  get  new  credentials 
and  leave  on  the  morrow.  The  auto  was  a  dandy 
machine  and  he  had  enjoyed  driving  it  in  Brus- 
sels that  Sunday  evening.  He  should  like  to 
drive  it  again. 

The  lieutenant,  watching  Yvonne  from  the  cor- 
ner of  his  eye,  said  he  would  be  pleased  to  take 
Herr  Fargo  to  Antwerp,  and  hurried  across.  He 
was,  in  fact,  relieved  when  Madame  Campion  had 
not  remained  and  glad  that  he  was  to  have  a 
chauffeur.  He  rushed  to  Yvonne,  with  an  eager 
cry,  holding  out  both  his  hands.  She  drew  her- 
self up  and  did  not  take  them. 

"It  is  not  my  fault,  my  dear  Yvonne,"  he  cried. 
"I  swear  it  is  not.  You  must  not  be  angry  with 
me.  Come!  .  .  .  Madame  von  Schwabe  is  hon- 
ored that  you  go  to  her." 

"No,  Otto,"  she  said,  with  grave  decision  in 
her  manner.  There  was  a  note  of  finality  in  her 
voice  that  astonished  and  disconcerted  the  young 
officer.  Her  eyes,  always  so  expressive,  said 
more  to  him  even  than  her  words. 

"But  you  must,"  he  stammered.     "Come!" 

He  thrust  his  arm  through  hers.     She  stood 
motionless.    He  glanced  about,  always  self-con- 
scious and  fearful  of  anything  like  a  scene. 
[243] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"We  cannot  stand  here,  squabbling!"  he  cried. 
"And  I  cannot  leave  you  here." 

"You  can  call  the  guard,"  she  suggested 
haughtily. 

"Yvonne!"  he  said,  starting  back. 

"You  treat  me  as  a  prisoner,"  she  said.  "Very 
well;  make  me  one!" 

A  deep  flush  reddened  his  fair  skin. 

"It  is  not  my  fault  at  all." 

"I  have  been  shamed,  humiliated,"  she  said, 
with  high  dignity.  "It  does  not  matter  who  has 
done  it.  It  is  done.  I  will  not  be  dragged  back 
to  Antwerp  by  you.  I  will  not  have  my  shame 
advertised.  I  shall  place  myself  under  the  care 
of  the  American." 

" Ach!"  he  broke  in,  spluttering  in  his  anger. 
"That  Yankee " 

"He  shall  take  me  to  the  only  place  I  will  go," 
she  said.  "He  shall  take  me  if  we  have  to  walk! 
I  shall  go  to  the  Convent.  That  is  where  I  shall 
go.  That  is  the  only  place  I  will  go." 

She  turned  to  cross  the  rails.  He  could  do 
nothing  but  walk  by  her  side.  He  saw  German 
privates  watching;  saw  the  lieutenant  in  com- 
mand looking  on.  He  forced  a  smile. 

"The  Convent?"  he  repeated.  "It  is  a  hundred 
miles  away.  You  are  mad,  Yvonne !" 

[244] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"It  will  hide  the  indignity  that  has  been  in- 
flicted on  a  Belgian,"  she  said.  "On  you,  too, 
Otto.  My  world  at  Antwerp  and  your  world 
there  shall  not  see  that  you  are  unable  to  pro- 
tect me." 

He  glanced  at  her,  struck  by  this  view.  He 
said  haughtily  that  no  one  would  dare  to  criticize 
him.  Then  the  officer  commanding  at  this  fron- 
tier station  came  and  saluted,  and  the  lieutenant 
tried  to  be  amiable  and  calm,  and  paused  for  a 
few  words ;  but  Yvonne,  all  stately  dignity  in  her 
small,  straight,  slim  body,  went  outside. 

Stoneman  sat  at  the  wheel  in  the  car.  Her 
eyes  flashed  a  signal  that  the  plan  was  going 
well.  When  the  lieutenant  came,  a  minute  later, 
he  could  hardly  continue  to  argue  within  the 
hearing  of  "this  Yankee." 

"I'm  sorry,  old  chap !"  he  cried.  "Mademoiselle 
Duberges  wishes  to  go  to  the  Convent.  She  has 
some  matters  to  arrange  at  her  chateau.  I  can't 
give  you  a  lift." 

"But  you  must  go  through  Antwerp,  Herr 
Leutnant,"  Stoneman  pleaded.  "Let  me  drive 
you  that  far." 

"No!"  Yvonne  cried.  "We  are  not  going 
through  Antwerp.  We  are  going  round.  But 
you  shall  come,  just  the  same,  Monsieur  Monty, 

[245] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

if  it  is  convenient.  He  stayed  with  me,  Otto." 
She  turned  to  the  impatient  lieutenant.  "He 
must  not  be  left  here.  You  can  take  him  on  to 
Antwerp  afterward." 

"Suits  me  all  right — thanks!"  Stoneman 
drawled. 

Yvonne  was  already  in  the  automobile.  The 
lieutenant  was  helpless,  and  he  was  not  dis- 
pleased. He  should  have  three  hours  with 
Yvonne  all  to  himself,  with  no  care  of  driving, 
and  a  sympathetic  chauffeur  who  would  not  look 
round  too  often. 

"Keep  the  main  road  to  the  southeast,"  he 
said.  "You  can't  go  wrong." 

The  car  jumped  away.  So  far,  perfect! 
Stoneman,  exhilarated,  confident,  drove  as  Ger- 
man officers  drove.  There  were  no  speed  limits 
for  them.  There  were  no  cars  on  the  roads  but 
theirs  and  now  and  again  one  from  which  waved 
an  American  flag;  a  flag  of  mercy  carrying  its 
message  of  help  and  comfort  from  the  Relief 
Commission. 

Stoneman  kept  always  toward  the  east,  and 
did  this  the  more  boldly  when  he  heard  no  pro- 
tests from  behind.  The  lieutenant  was  too  much 
occupied  in  appeasing  Yvonne  to  notice  direc- 
tion. He  pleaded;  he  stormed.  He  got  angry; 

[246] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

became  cool  again.  Stoneman  could  not  under- 
stand the  German  words,  but  from  the  inflections 
he  thought  Yvonne  was  carrying  it  off  with  too 
high  a  hand. 

They  were  stopped  at  Turnhout  by  a  sentinel. 
The  lieutenant  spoke  harshly;  but,  with  a  civilian 
driver,  he  was  forced  to  produce  his  Staff  pass. 
This  precious  document  Stoneman  retained, 
without  protest.  He  placed  it  in  the  map  pocket 
in  front  of  him.  He  went  on  more  confidently. 
He  had  not  been  sure  the  lieutenant  carried  any 
pass,  or  that  it  would  cover  civilians. 

He  drove  slowly  now,  recalling  the  map,  which 
he  had  furtively  studied  in  the  carriage  when 
.Yvonne  had  talked  of  the  underground  road  to 
freedom.  His  trained  brain  identified  roads  and 
places.  He  turned  down  a  rough  lane,  sure  that 
he  was  near  the  charcoal-burner's  hut.  Stopped 
here  by  a  patrol,  he  produced  the  passport  to  re- 
ceive a  respectful  salute.  Farther  on  he  checked 
as  a  peasant  woman  passed.  Yvonne  asked  the 
way  in  Flemish. 

Stoneman  was  sure  a  message  had  been  given. 
The  charcoal-burner  would  know  a  party  must 
cross  that  night,  even  if  there  was  a  moon.  He 
peered  through  the  dusk,  marking  every  object, 

[247] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

so  that  his  return  journey  might  be  without  hesi- 
tation. The  lieutenant  leaned  forward. 

"Did  you  see  the  aerodrome  as  you  passed, 
Monday,  Herr  Fargo?" 

"Yes,"  Stoneman  answered. 

"One  of  your  fellow-countrymen  did  it,"  the 
lieutenant  snapped. 

"Ah,  you've  caught  him,  then?" 

"No;  he  was  drowned,  we  think,  in  escaping. 
We  heard  it  from  Berlin  to-day.  They  got  it 
from  New  York  papers — Stoneman,  of  the 
French  Service;  perhaps  he  is  a  friend  of  yours?" 

A  rasping  antagonism  barked  in  the  voice. 
Yvonne  had  not  forgiven  him  and  he  had  become 
angry. 

"I  must  go  to  the  chateau  first,  to  get  some 
things,"  she  broke  in.  "Please  keep  to  the  right 
at  the  fork  of  the  road." 

Stoneman  nodded,  as  though  the  request  was 
news  to  him.  The  lieutenant  heard  it  gladly. 
He  should  have  her  alone  in  her  own  house,  for 
a  few  minutes  at  least.  She  should  climb  dow» 
from  her  high  horse  then. 

They  came  to  the  gate.     It  hung,  broken. 

They   drove  up   a   shattered   avenue,   avoiding 

fallen  branches.     The  wide,  sloping  lawn  was 

frozen  mud.     A  great  hole  was  in  the  centre 

[  248  ] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

where  a  shell  had  burst.  They  drew  up  in  front 
of  the  deserted  house,  dark  and  dreary  in  its 
shuttered  isolation. 

"The  key,"  Yvonne  said,  "is  beneath  the  seat 
in  the  summerhouse." 

"You  leave  it  there !"  the  lieutenant  exclaimed, 
surprised,  jumping  out.  "Is  that  safe?" 

"No  Belgian  would  use  it,"  was  the  quick 
answer. 

The  lieutenant,  who  knew  the  place  well, 
stalked  angrily  away  with  an  electric  torch.  The 
accent  on  the  Belgian  had  sharply  pointed 
Yvonne's  retort. 

"Be  careful!"  Stoneman  whispered. 

"It  was  my  home,"  she  said,  choking  bitterly. 
"I  cannot  pretend  always.  I  will  not  go  alone 
into  the  house  with  him.  Promise " 

"All  right!"  he  promised,  getting  out., 

"I  shall  run  upstairs,"  she  whispered.  "I  will 
put  the  key  on  the  outside.  I  will  come  and  ask 
both  of  you  to  move  a  heavy  trunk  for  me.  He 
must  go  first  into  the  room.  You  have  only  to 
turn  the  key.  There  is  no  window.  The  skylight 
is  high.  He  cannot  be  seen  or  heard." 

And  then  the  shining  torch  reappeared.  The 
lieutenant  handed  it  to  Yvonne  and  took  one 
of  the  automobile  lamps. 

[249] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"We  shan't  be  long,"  he  said  to  Stoneman. 

The  door  was  slammed;  but  Stoneman's  foot 
had  interposed.  The  lieutenant,  not  knowing 
this,  sped  after  Yvonne.  He  called  out  to  her. 
The  only  answer  was  a  vanished  light  on  the 
stairs. 

"A  fine  old  hall,  Herr  Leutnant,"  Stoneman 
said  cheerfully. 

The  lieutenant,  who  had  begun  to  ascend, 
swung  round  with  a  muttered  execration,  and  the 
full  light  of  the  automobile  lamp  he  carried  shone 
on  Stoneman.  The  latter  blinked  and  looked 
about  with  innocent  admiration. 

The  lieutenant  put  down  the  light  and  came 
toward  Stoneman.  His  chafed  vexation  at 
Yvonne's  attitude  and  the  Yankee's  intrusion 
had  mounted  now  to  an  anger  beyond  control. 

"It  seems,  Herr  Fargo,"  he  said  in  a  voice  of 
insupportable  arrogance,  "that  you  laugh  at  a 
German  drumbeat  which  sounds  round  the 
world." 

Stoneman  threw  back  his  head,  grinning. 

"I  must  laugh,  Herr  Leutnant,"  he  said.  "A 
drum  that  is  not  heard  is  a  joke." 

"Ach!" 

The  lieutenant  craned  his  head  forward,  ludi- 
crously astonished  at  open  defiance  from  a  de- 

[250] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

spised  civilian  of  a  despised  nation.  He  could 
not  believe  it ;  it  could  not  have  been  meant.  He 
did  not  want  to  have  to  kill  this  fellow,  who  stood 
grinning  like  a  fool.  He  came  striding  over  with 
his  best  soldier's  gait. 

"Yankee  humor  and  Yankee  munitions  are 
best  kept  at  home,"  he  said. 

"They  both  explode  where  Yankees  choose," 
Was  the  quick  retort. 

The  lieutenant's  fingers  flew  to  the  button  of 
his  overcoat.  His  hand  was  sharply  knocked 
away.  He  leaped  backward,  tugging  at  his 
button.  His  hand  was  sharply  rapped  again  and 
again.  He  abandoned  the  effort  to  reach  his 
pistol,  so  safely  buttoned  up,  and  snatched  a 
chair.  He  got  a  stinging  slap  across  his  cheek 
from  an  open  palm.  That  settled  the  weapons^ 
of  course.  He  was  forced  to  the  incredible  in- 
dignity of  defending  himself  with  his  fists.  He 
knew  nothing  of  such  peasant's  weapons  and 
could  only  rush  madly  and  strike  out  wildly. 

Stoneman  had  not  to  wait  a  minute  for  his 
chance.  The  knock-out  blow  was  precisely  de- 
livered. The  lieutenant  dropped  quietly  on  a 
great  tiger  skin  and  lay  without  moving. 

Yvonne  came  running  down  the  stairs. 

"Soldiers!"  she  cried. 

[251] 


THE  "WHITE  HOUSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

Stoneman  cocked  his  head  sidewise.  He  heard 
a  measured  tramp. 

"No — too  late!"  he  cried,  as  Yvonne  ran  to 
close  the  open  front  door.  He  turned  the  tiger 
skin  over  the  prostrate  figure  of  the  lieutenant. 
"Hide!"  he  ordered.  "You  may  get  to  the  Con- 
vent." 

"No." 

"Go!"  he  commanded  sternly.  She  vanished 
as  an  officer  appeared  at  the  door. 

"Ah,  Herr  Leutnant!"  Stoneman  exclaimed, 
extending  a  hand. 

"You,  Stoneman!"  Tiedermann  greeted.  "I 
heard  the  automobile.  Your  passports  are  all 
right,  of  course.  You  are  here  by  permission." 

"Yes,  yes;  send  your  men  away." 

The  lieutenant  stared;  then  turned  and  gave 
the  command.  The  two  privates  without  marched 
heavily  down  the  avenue. 

"I  am  taking  Mademoiselle  Duberges,  the 
owner  of  this  chateau,  across  by  the  underground 
to-night,"  Stoneman  said.  "I  have  a  car  and  a 
Staff  pass,  and  we  are  expected  at  the  border. 
You  must  come." 

The  broken  man  hesitated. 

"We  shall  never  do  it,"  he  stammered. 

"Nonsense,  man!  I  can't  go  to  the  frontier 
[252] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

without  an  officer  in  the  car.  Mademoiselle  Du- 
berges  and  I  shall  both  be  shot  if  you  don't  come. 
I  am  an  American  citizen.  So  are  you.  That 
settles  it." 

"That  settles  it,"  Tiedermann  said;  but  there 
was  no  enthusiasm  in  his  voice. 

Stoneman  spoke  sharply. 

"You  polluted  your  sword,"  he  said.  "You 
have  a  chance  to  make  it  bright.  You  can  save 
a  helpless  Belgian  girl." 

"Yes,  yes!"  Tiedermann  straightened. 

"You  can  leave  for  the  night  without  rousing 
suspicion?" 

"Oh,  yes.    But  I  must  go  and  do  it  properly." 

"Go,  then;  and  we'll  meet  you  where  we 
parted  Monday.  Order  your  men  to  come  here 
at  nine  to-morrow  morning  and  search  the  house 
thoroughly.  Be  sure  of  this,  Tiedermann.  The 
key  will  be  in  this  door.  Be  sure!" 

"Yes;  but  why?" 

Stoneman  knew  the  chilling  terror  inspired 
by  a  Prussian  Staff  officer.  He  dared  not  ex- 
plain. 

"The  house  has  been  entered,"  he  said.  "Be 
sure !" 

He  shut  the  door  on  Tiedermann.  Yvonne 
came  again. 

[253] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"I  heard,"  she  breathed.  She  looked  at  the 
rolled-up  tiger  skin.  "Do  you  need  me?" 

"If  he  comes  to,  yes.    I'll  call.    Go!" 

She  disappeared  again. 

He  gagged  and  bound  a  man  just  fluttering 
back  to  consciousness.  The  leather  bootlaces  of 
the  lieutenant  and  his  scented  handkerchief  fur- 
nished the  necessary  means.  Stoneman  took  the 
lamp  and  searched  the  rooms,  deciding  finally  on 
the  butler's  pantry.  It  had  iron-barred,  iron- 
shuttered  windows  and  a  strong  door,  which  he 
could  lock  on  the  outside.  He  dragged  the  tiger 
skin,  with  its  burden,  here,  examined  carefully 
the  thongs  and  the  gag,  and  then  looked  into  the 
staring,  upturned  eyes. 

"If  you  had  let  mademoiselle  go  on  with  her 
aunt,"  he  said  quietly,  "you  would  have  been 
spared  this.  I  am  Stoneman." 

The  lids  fluttered  down  and  two  tears  rolled 
out;  tears  of  shame  and  humiliation. 

"You  will  be  released  in  the  morning,"  Stone- 
man promised. 

He  hunted  up  a  rug  and  covered  the  prone, 
helpless  figure  of  this  arrogant  spoiled  boy ;  then 
locked  the  door  behind  him.  To  Yvonne,  in  the 
hall,  he  said: 

"He  is  not  hurt.  He  is  safely  tied  up.  I  have 
[254] 


r-r" 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

left  the  key  in  the  door.  We  must  wait  an  hour. 
Tiedermann  will  take  that  time." 

"This  house  will  be  stripped  by  to-morr0W 

night,"  she  said.  "My  mother's  letters 

Please  don't  come;  I  shall  burn  them." 

She  took  the  lamp  and  opened  a  door.  He  saw 
her  pause  on  the  threshold  and  fling  up  her 
hands;  then  she  went  in.  He  sat  in  the  semi- 
darkness  and  smoked  cigarettes,  watching  her  as 
she  passed  and  repassed.  He  heard  the  pushing 
of  drawers  and  the  crashing  of  frail  wood  as  she 
broke  some  open;  and  he  caught  the  smell  of 
burning  papers. 

With  what  cool,  swift  precision  she  moved 
about,  wasting  no  moment,  calmly  accepting  the 
vandal  destruction  of  her  home,  undismayed  by 
the  coming  desperate  risks  of  the  night!  What 
heroines  war  had  made  of  these  finely  bred,  deli- 
cate Belgian  gentlewomen!  He  went  on  plan- 
ning. He  had  what  no  other  fugitive  had  ever 
possessed — an  automobile  to  waste  and  a  Ger- 
man officer  to  help.  Surely  these  advantages 
ought  to  be  utilized;  and  he  thought  he  saw  the 
way. 

He  lighted  a  match  and  looked  at  his  watch. 
It  was  time  to  go.  He  went  to  the  brilliantly 
lighted  room,  but  stopped  short  on  the  threshold, 

[255] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

staring  at  a  scene  of  ruin.  Half  a  dozen  empty 
wine  bottles  stood  on  a  polished  table,  now 
burned  by  cigars  and  scratched  and  hacked. 
Broken  glass  and  chunks  of  dried  clay  from 
heavy  boots  lay  on  the  delicate  carpet,  burned 
here  and  there  by  cigars  flung  down.  Frag- 
ments of  gilded  chairs  and  of  porcelain  vases 
were  scattered  about.  On  the  wall  hung  the 
portrait  of  a  regal  woman.  It  had  been  made  a 
target  and  was  defiled  by  lumps  of  now  dry 
clay. 

Yvonne,  feeding  an  open  porcelain  stove  with 
yellowed  letters,  turned  and  saw  him. 

"Yes;  they  have  been  here,"  she  said  quietly. 
"They  forced  that  window." 

He  took  out  his  knife  and  cut  the  portrait  from 
the  frame,  carefully  cleansing  it. 

"Your  mother?" 

She  bent  her  head  and  whispered: 

"Yes." 

"It  is  too  large  to  take,"  he  said;  "but  I  will 
hide  it  somewhere." 

"There  is  no  hiding  place  left  in  Belgium,'* 
she  answered. 

"We  must  go,"  he  told  her. 

"I  will  follow,"  she  said.  He  knew  she  meant 
to  burn  the  portrait.  The  only  way  to  save  from 

[256] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

German  defilement  was  to  destroy.  She  did  not 
keep  him  waiting  two  minutes.  "I  shall  never 
see  this  house  again,"  she  said  as  they  drove 
away. 

"The  war  will  end  some  day." 

"This  house  will  end  to-morrow,"  was  her  quiet 
answer.  "He  will  burn  it."  And  then  she 
bowed  her  head  and  was  silent. 

Tiedermann  was  waiting,  to  the  American's 
great  relief ;  there  was  good  reason  to  fear  nerves 
too  broken  to  face  action. 

"My  sergeant,"  he  said,  as  he  got  in  by  Stone- 
man's  side,  "will  search  the  house  in  the  morning. 
My  men  suspect  nothing."  He  laughed  nervous- 
ly as  the  car  went  on.  "It  is  new  to  slip  secretly 
out  in  an  automobile  that  you  can  hear  for  ten 
miles." 

"It  will  be  easy  because  of  your  uniform," 
Stoneman  answered  confidently,  turning  so  that 
Yvonne  might  hear.  "It  is  you  who  must  get 
us  past  the  guard  stations.  I " 

He  stopped  short,  for  he  saw  a  red  spot  in  the 
direction  of  the  chateau.  He  thought  of  the 
large  oiled  and  varnished  canvas  thrust  on  a 
blazing  fire.  Plow  had  he  come  to  permit  that? 
How  had  he  failed  to  foresee  so  obvious  a  dan- 
ger? He  hoped  Yvonne  would  not  turn.  She 

[257] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

sat  with  bent  head  and  face  buried  in  her  turned- 
up  collar.  He  wondered,  as  he  speeded  up,  what 
she  would  say  and  do  if  she  knew.  He  set  his 
teeth  grimly  and  pushed  madly  ahead.  He 
nudged  Tiedermann  and  jerked  a  thumb  back- 
ward. 

"If  it  is  the  chateau,"  he  whispered,  "it  was  an 
accident." 

Tiedermann  turned  and  stared  at  the  red  spot. 

"Chateau  or  not,  accident  or  not,"  he  mut- 
tered, "it  will  light  the  sky  north  to  the  fron- 
tier and  south  to  the  aerodrome.  There  are 
autos  down  there.  They  will  come.  Faster! 
Faster!  I  do  not  see  it  now."  A  little  later 
he  said:  "My  men  are  perhaps  already  there. 
Will  they  find  clues?" 

"Sure!"  Stoneman  said  as  the  car  skidded  a 
quarter  circle  in  turning  a  corner. 

He  told  in  whispered  sentences  of  the  cadet 
of  a  noble  Prussian  family,  a  Staff  officer,  bound 
and  gagged.  When  he  spoke  the  name  of  Von 
Schmiedell  Tiedermann  stood  up,  clinging  peril- 
ously, and  peered  toward  the  south.  They  came 
near  running  down  a  patrol  standing  lined  across 
the  road;  but  it  broke  at  sight  of  the  uniform 
and  the  men  presented  arms.  So  he  stood  always 
when  they  saw  lights,  and  never  once  was  the  car 

[258] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

stopped  until  it  came  to  the  barrier  at  the  guard 
station  beneath  the  railway.  Tiedermann,  inso- 
lently arrogant,  ordered  the  gate  opened,  and  sol- 
diers ran  to  obey. 

"The  last!  The  last!"  murmured  Stoneman; 
it  had  been  much  easier  than  he  had  dared  to 
hope. 

"It  is  all  dark  back  there,"  muttered  Tieder- 
mann, shaken  to  his  seat  as  the  automobile  later 
whirled  into  the  dark,  lonely  lane. 

"We  are  in  a  hollow,"  Stoneman  answered. 
"What  now?"  he  asked  of  Yvonne. 

"The  charcoal-burner,"  she  told  him,  "will  be 
on  the  watch." 

Stoneman  drove  slowly  up  what  was  hardly 
more  than  a  cart  track,  and  soon  the  lights  fell 
on  a  Belgian  peasant  woman. 

"It  is  Marie  Koort!"  Yvonne  cried. 

But  the  woman  vanished  in  the  dark  belt  of 
trees. 

"It's  the  German  uniform,"  Yvonne  said,  get- 
ting out  and  standing  silent  in  the  glare. 

Stoneman  shivered  as  he  thought  of  this  white, 
fragile  girl  thrusting  her  way  through  tangles 
of  barbed  wire.  She  always  looked  to  the  south. 
He  turned.  A  faint  rose  color  tinged  the  sky 
over  the  distant  dark  horizon.  She  did  not  see 

[259] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

it.  She  was  an  absorbed,  concentrated  listener. 
Presently  she  turned  and  vanished  amid  the 
trees. 

"Patrols  may  come,  because  the  noise  of  the 
automobile  has  stopped,"  Stoneman  said. 

He  got  out  and  pretended  to  be  busy  with  the 
engine.  Tiedermann  said  nothing.  He  stood 
eilent,  staring  at  the  south,  listening;  listening 
always. 

Ten  minutes  passed.  No  sounds  came.  Stone- 
man switched  off  the  lights  and  they  pushed  the 
car  into  the  shadow  of  the  trees.  Kind  clouds 
hung  blackly  and  the  darkness  was  impenetrable. 
Stoneman  shaded  the  torch  and  searched  the  tool 
box.  He  found  a  pair  of  wire  nippers. 

Yvonne  came  so  silently  that  her  whispering 
voice  was  the  first  announcement  of  her  presence. 

"Five  young  men  are  going,"  she  said.  "They 
will  creep  in  front  of  us  and  all  will  cut.  They 
say  that  I  may  hardly  be  scratched.  They  say 
that  my  fur  will  save  me.  So  you  must  not  worry 
about  me.  The  charcoal-burner  and  Marie  are 
going  too." 

"That,"  said  Stoneman,  "is  because  the  auto- 
mobile leads  straight  to  them.  I  feared  it." 

"They  were  going  next  week,  anjrhow,"  she 
replied.  "He  will  come  last.  Koort  will  hold 

[260] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

up  the  live  wire,"  she  replied.  "We  must  wait 
two  hours.  Two  sentries,  paid  to  be  blind,  come 
on  then." 

"We  cannot  wait,"  Stoneman  said.     "Where 
is  Koort?" 

"Close  by.    He  speaks  a  little  French."    She 
called  softly. 

"We  cannot  wait,"  Stoneman  repeated 
sharply.  "We  must  go  now.  All  of  you  will  go 
to  the  edge  of  the  trees  a  hundred  yards  west  of 
here.  The  wires  I  saw  this  afternoon  run  fifty 
yards  to  the  right  of  those  trees.  The  lieutenant 
will  go  down  to  the  wires  openly.  He  is  a  Ger- 
man officer.  No  one  but  an  officer  will  stop  him 
or  question  him.  It  is  a  quarter  of  a  mile  up  the 
lane  here  to  the  top  of  the  hill.  I  shall  stand 
on  the  step  and  drive  the  car  to  the  top.  I  shall 
get  off  there.  The  car  will  rush  down  the  hill- 
side. With  luck  it  may  go  straight.  It  may 
even  break  the  live  wire.  If  it  swerves  or  strikes 
a  tree,  no  matter.  It  will  crash.  Every  sentry 
on  this  side  of  the  lieutenant  will  run  to  it.  Those 
on  the  other  side  of  him  will  run  too.  He  will 
stop  these.  He  will  turn  them  sharply  back. 
There  will  be  a  clear  space  for  some  minutes. 
There  will  be  time  for  all  to  go " 

"Good!  Good!"  Tiedermann  interrupted. 
[261] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"But  you?"  Yvonne  questioned  eagerly. 

"I  shall  run  into  the  shadow  of  the  trees," 
Stoneman  answered.  "I  shall  be  there  before 
the  kst  one  can  have  gone  beneath  the  wires. 
I  marked  the  place  this  afternoon." 

"I  will  wait  for  you,"  Tiedermann  promised. 

«T J5 

He  stopped  short.  They  heard  it,  all  of  them, 
faint,  far  distant — the  sound  of  an  automobile! 

"Where  is  Marie  Koort?"  Stoneman  asked. 

A  hard  hand,  groping,  touched  his  cheek. 

"I  am  here,  monsieur,"  he  heard.  "Your  plan 
is  good." 

He  tore  off  his  fur  coat  and  thrust  it  into  her 
hands. 

"Put  it  on,"  he  commanded.  "Go  quick — all 
of  you!  Quick!  I  will  wait  five  minutes;  not 
longer." 

He  felt  a  light  pressure  on  his  arm.  A  hand 
slipped  down  into  his  fingers.  It  was  small  and 
soft,  but  its  grasp  was  firm. 

"It's  only  forty  yards  across  the  wires, 
Yvonne,"  he  said.  "When  you're  through,  run. 
You  will  see  village  lights,  I  hope.  They  mean 
Holland  and  safety.  If  Peggy  understood, 
somebody  will  be  there,  waiting.  Tell  her— 

The  sound  of  a  shot  came  from  the  south;  an 
[262] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

answer  from  the  north.  The  sentries  were 
warned. 

"Quick!  Quick!"  Stoneman  ordered. 

He  pushed  the  car  back  into  the  track,  put  on 
the  leather  chauffeur's  coat,  which  had  been 
folded  beneath  the  cushion,  and  placed  the  wire 
cutter  in  the  pocket.  He  had  a  fair  chance  if 
there  was  no  guard  at  the  top  of  the  lane,  the 
one  place  where  he  could  leave  the  car.  If  there 
was  a  guard,  to  jump  off  was  to  jump  to  death, 
probably  immediate;  at  best,  delayed  only  for 
hours.  He  listened  always,  his  ear  to  the  north. 
Faint  sounds  came ;  the  clink  of  metal.  A  minute 
passed;  the  sounds  did  not  diminish  and  he 
caught  the  echo  of  voices.  There  were  men 
there,  then,  stationary. 

He  did  not  get  on  the  step,  but  into  the  seat. 
He  turned  about.  The  southern  sky  was  all  a 
warm  pink  glow.  Shots — warning  shots — came. 
The  automobile  sounded  anew.  He  was  sure  it 
had  stopped  for  a  moment  at  the  guard  station 
beneath  the  railway.  It  would  arrive  too  late, 
for  its  driver  would  never  think  of  using  this  cart 
track. 

Stoneman  thought  of  his  mother  in  California. 
He  breathed  a  farewell  and  murmured  Peggy's 
name;  then  he  pulled  the  starting  lever.  The 

[263] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

car  leaped  away.  He  peered  ahead  as  the  car 
rocked  over  the  rough  road.  He  accelerated, 
bending  low,  clinging  to  the  wheel. 

His  lights  flared  on  men  lined  across  his  path. 
They  had  barely  time  to  scatter  as  he  rushed 
by  at  sixty  miles  an  hour  and  plunged  down  the 
hillside. 

A  blinding  flash ;  a  roar ;  the  automobile  leaped 
high  in  the  air,  sprang  forward  many  yards,  and 
crashed  through  wire,  to  rest,  almost  without  a 
jar,  on  the  ground. 

Stoneman,  insulated  by  the  tires,  was  yet 
numbed  by  the  shock;  but  he  sneezed  violently 
under  acid  fumes  from  burned  rubber.  The 
sneeze  woke  him  to  alert  life.  He  threw  a  cush- 
ion in  front,  flung  himself  on  it  and  cut  and 
twisted  in  the  darkness;  then  he  dived  under. 
Cutting,  thrusting,  wriggling,  he  won  some  yards 
before  German  soldiers  gathered  behind  him. 
Their  cries  and  the  tramping  of  their  feet 
drowned  the  snick  of  his  cutter  and  the  ripping 
of  his  leather  coat.  Their  lights,  the  small  torches 
of  the  private  soldier,  flashed;  but  the  auto 
shielded  and  shadowed  him. 

Two  shots  were  fired.  He  did  not  know  that 
the  cushion  was  the  target  and  that  it  had  been 
knocked  end  up  and  fallen  as  a  dead  man  might. 

[264] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

They  began  to  cut  away  to  the  car.  Their  noise 
drowned  his.  He  was  halfway  across. 

He  heard  a  loud  shout  from  the  west  and 
thought  they  had  found  the  tunnel  beneath  the 
wires.  Pie  plunged  and  bored  and  snipped.  His 
gloves  were  ribbons,  his  coat  in  rags,  his  legs  and 
hands  cut  deeply,  his  face  scratched  and  bleed- 
ing; but  he  knew  nothing  of  all  this.  At  last  his 
thrust-out  arm  hit  nothing.  He  was  through  I 
He  struggled  to  his  feet  and  staggered  toward 
a  light  that  shone  like  a  beacon  half  a  mile  toward 
the  north.  He  covered  some  hundreds  of  yards 
over  the  rough  ground  of  No  Man's  Land,  and 
then,  spent  utterly,  stumbled  over  the  root  of  a 
tree  and  fell  heavily. 

He  lay  prone,  gasping.  His  ear,  against  the 
earth,  was  jarred  lightly  by  the  footsteps  of  men. 
He  knew  that  Germans  had  crossed  and  were 
searching  No  Man's  Land.  He  raised  his  head 
and  saw  that  he  was  almost  within  the  circle  of 
light  thrown  by  what  he  was  sure  were  motor 
lamps.  He  saw  a  figure  silhouetted,  conspicu- 
ous, small  and  slight;  and  he  was  sure  he  was 
looking  at  Yvonne.  That  was  good ;  Yvonne  was 
safe! 

He  dropped  his  head  as  somebody  ran  past 
him,  checked  sharply,  and  stood  outlined  black 

[265] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

against  the  light.  A  right  shoulder  was  sud- 
denly broadened.  A  head  was  bent  sidewise. 
The  man  was  aiming.  Stoneman  leaped  in  hot 
anger.  The  rifle  spit  and  dropped.  Its  sur- 
prised owner  was  violently  thrust  forward  into 
the  hands  of  running  Dutch  soldiers. 

A  joyous  shout:  "By  heck,  it's  him!"  Hum- 
bert Honest  came  running  to  Stoneman. 

"Hike!  Hike!"  said  Honest  hurriedly.  "I'll 
pick  you  up  later.  This  is  no  five-cent  affair. 
All  Germany  will  howl  at  Holland  for  your  in- 
ternment." 

Stoneman  stepped  into  the  darkness,  but 
paused  as  he  heard  an  astonished  cry  from  Hon- 
est. 

"Von  Schmiedell!"  Honest  shouted.  "He's 
made  Von  Schmiedell  prisoner!  Oh,  Kalama- 
zoo!" 

Stoneman  looked  back.  The  young  German 
and  the  girl  he  would  have  shot  stood  facing  each 
other  in  front  of  the  lights. 


[266] 


XII 

At  the  Vieux  Doelen,  in  The  Hague,  Peggy 
rose  often  from  her  sleepless  bed  and  fed  an  in- 
satiable stove  in  the  private  parlor  that  ad- 
joined her  bedroom.  This  hourly  act  was  an  ex- 
cuse for  moving  about  and  helped  her  to  main- 
tain a  pretence  of  hope.  She  told  herself  that 
the  mission  on  which  Humbert  Honest  had  so 
promptly  gone  at  her  request  might,  after  all, 
not  prove  fruitless,  and  that  he  might  turn  up 
with  a  chilled  and  starving  couple.  Sometimes 
she  crossed  the  sitting-room  and  listened  at  the 
open  door  to  the  breathing  of  the  children.  They 
were  a  heavy  but  welcome  responsibility,  and 
their  presence  was  a  great  comfort.  Otherwise 
she  was  alone,  for  broken  and  unhappy  Madame 
Campion  had  gone  direct  from  the  station  to  Bel- 
gian friends — to  the  friends  who  were  sheltering 
Geoffrey.  Peggy  had  not  seen  her  brother,  who 
it  seemed,  lest  he  be  interned,  was  masquerading 
as  the  footman  of  the  Van  der  Weydens. 

She  scurried  through  a  bath  in  the  early  morn- 
ing, listening  always;  for  Humbert  Honest 

[267] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

might  come  at  any  moment  with  his  news  of 
failure.  She  had  barely  finished  dressing  when 
they  came  and  told  her  that  a  Belgian  woman 
waited  below,  with  a  message. 

"Send  her  up,"  Peggy  ordered. 

This  Belgian  woman  came,  wearing  a  heavy 
cloak,  much  too  large,  of  dark-stained  green. 
The  dried  mud  of  many  days  blotched  its  folds 
and  yellowed  its  frayed  edges.  Its  cumbrous 
hood  shrouded  the  face,  but  could  not  hide  those 
wonderful  eyes  of  Yvonne.  She  curtsied  deeply 
and  spoke  in  Flemish;  and  Peggy  nodded  as 
though  she  understood.  The  door  closed  behind 
the  hotel  servant.  Peggy's  arms  were  opened 
wide.  It  was  she,  not  Yvonne,  who  broke  down. 
Proud  English  reticence  could  not  check  the 
stream  of  tears  before  it  grew  into  a  flood.  That, 
indeed,  was  an  achievement  when  hopeless  misery 
was  so  swiftly  transformed  into  joy. 

"He  is  safe!"  were  Yvonne's  first  words.  "He 
is  hidden  in  Rotterdam." 

She  slipped  from  her  clumsy  wraps.  Peggy 
hustled  her  to  the  stove,  for  she  was  pinched  with 
cold.  She  told  the  story  of  the  night  in  flashes 
— a  piece  here,  a  bit  there ;  quietly,  but  with  ani- 
mation which  proved  that  she  had  still  reserves 
of  vitality.  An  underglow  of  color  came  to  her 

[268] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

cheeks  and  her  eyes  grew  brighter.  She  was  one 
of  that  slender  and  apparently  fragile  kind  who 
have  inexhaustible  stores  of  nervous  force  and 
know  no  fatigue  while  need  of  action  lasts.  She 
refused  breakfast;  it  would  take  too  long;  she 
must  go  to  her  aunt  immediately.  No ;  not  even 
her  cloak  must  be  brushed.  She  must  go  out  of 
that  hotel  as  she  had  come  in.  This  astounding 
Monsieur  Stoneman  had  done  such  amazing 
things  that  Berlin  would  stop  at  nothing.  There 
were  ways  of  compelling  Holland;  there  were 
ways  of  using  Dutch  courts — a  charge  of  theft, 
for  instance,  against  Madame  Campion,  brought 
by  a  German  secret  agent  and  supported  by 
•  perjured  German  spies;  such  things  had  been 
successfully  done. 

What  chance  had  a  deserting  German  officer 
of  escaping  internment,  or  a  French  airman,  or 
an  English  member  of  the  Naval  Division  un- 
less they  all  slipped  away  swiftly?  There  was 
a  boat  on  the  morrow,  Christmas  Eve.  Mr.  Hon- 
est was  determined  that  all  should  catch  it.  He? 
Where  was  he  ?  In  Rotterdam,  Yvonne  thought. 
She  had  been  dropped  at  the  Refugee  Camp  at 
Rozendaal,  with  Marie  Koort  and  the  charcoal- 
burner.  She  had  learned  of  a  freight  train  com- 

[269] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

ing  north,  had  taken  Marie  Koort's  wraps,  and 
had  stolen  on  board. 

"I  am  here,"  she  said;  "and  now  I  go." 

"You  must  not!"  Peggy  protested.  "Let  me 
send  a  message ;  and  you  shall  have  a  bath  and  a 
rest — and  we  will  get  some  clothes." 

But  Yvonne  already  had  put  on  the  mud-cov- 
ered cloak. 

"I  must  go  as  I  came,"  Yvonne  repeated,  with 
her  brilliant  smile.  "And  what  about  my  poor 
aunt?  Should  I  keep  her  one  minute  in  anx- 
iety?" 

"Geoffrey  is  there,"  Peggy  said. 

Yvonne  looked  down  at  her  burst  shoes,  her 
ragged  cloak. 

A  tap  at  the  door,  familiar  to  Peggy.  She 
ran  and  opened  it.  A  tall,  liveried  footman  en- 
tered. 

"Geoff!  Geoff!" 

Peggy's  arms  were  about  his  neck,  her  head 
against  his  breast. 

He  did  not  speak.  His  arms  did  not  clasp 
her.  She  looked  up.  He  was  staring  across  her 
shoulder.  He  was  shaking  all  over.  She  felt  it. 

"Geoff,"  she  whispered,  "she  loves  you!" 

She  turned  and  went  to  the  children,  decisively 
shutting,  almost  slamming,  the  door.  She  hugged 

[270] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

the  children  to  waking.  That  was  because  she 
felt  miserably  lonely.  Her  twin  brother — she 
no  longer  counted  for  him. 

"Quick!  Quick!"  she  cried,  with  fierce  energy. 

She  had  them  all  jumping  about  in  an  instant. 
She  was  caught  in  a  trap.  She  could  not  open 
the  door,  lest  these  sharp-eyed  girls  should  learn 
secrets.  She  hustled  them  into  their  clothes  and 
marshalled  them  down  to  breakfast.  She  or- 
dered for  them,  then  hurried  back  to  find  Hum- 
bert Honest  the  sole  occupant  of  her  parlor. 

She  went  to  him,  both  hands  outstretched,  her 
eyes  glowing  with  the  thanks  that  words  could 
not  express.  He  drew  her  to  the  window,  laugh- 
ing. A  footman  walked  down  the  street,  his  arm 
through  that  of  a  Belgian  peasant  girl,  the  sun 
glinting  on  the  black  enamelled  cockade  of  his 
shiny  tall  hat  as  he  bent  over  her. 

"I  told  him,"  Honest  said,  "that  he  must  walk 
in  front  of  her — that  he  must  keep  his  place ;  and 
that's  the  way  he  does  it!  She  was  like  a  prin- 
cess at  a  court,  Mrs.  Fargo."  He  checked  at 
the  name.  "I  reckon  it  had  better  go  at  that  till 
you're  out  of  the  woods,"  he  added,  fixing  his 
eyes  on  her.  "When  I  came  bouncing  in,  mad 
because  she'd  beaten  me  to  it  and  brought  you 
the  great  news,  she  drew  herself  up;  and  she 

[271] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

said:  'My  preserver — Geoffrey!'  That  was  me. 
'Monsieur  Honest — my  fiance,  Monsieur  le  Cap- 
itaine  Travers.'  Can  you  beat  it?  Dressed  in 
Marie  Koort's  old  duds,  and  him  a  footman ;  and 
yet  I  felt  as  though  I  was  being  presented  at 
court!  And  so  they're  engaged — those  two." 

"You've  given  me  happy  news,"  Peggy  ad- 
mitted. 

"And  you  didn't  know?" 

"They  didn't,  themselves,  half  an  hour  ago." 

Honest  frowned.  His  enormous  eyes  loomed 
larger  because  of  the  dark  lines  underneath. 

"She  was  face  to  face  with  Von  Schmiedell 
for  one  minute  last  night."  He  almost  whis- 
pered it.  "On  this  side — in  Holland.  I'll  never 
forget  it.  Neither  flinched.  And  he  had  just 
tried  to  shoot  her!  In  the  hotel  at  Antwerp 
• "  She  looked  at  him.  "It  was  mighty  dif- 
ferent then.  Oh,  it's  war,  you'll  say!  But— 

"Drop  it!"  Peggy  ordered.  "We've  all  waked 
from  a  horrid  dream." 

Honest  turned  as  the  couple  disappeared. 

"What  does  a  man  know  about  women?  About 
any  woman?"  he  burst  out,  eying  Peggy. 

His  jaw  was  thrust  out.  But  she  was  still 
peering  out  of  the  window. 

[  272  ] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"Didn't  he — didn't  they  leave  any  message?" 
she  asked  wistfully. 

"You'll  see  them  on  the  boat,"  he  answered. 
"I  hustled  them  off.  Madame  Campion  must 
chase  for  passports.  Oh,  it's  her  busy  day,  all 
right!" 

Peggy  bent  her  head.  It  was  all  as  she  wished 
and  hoped;  and  yet  she  had  lost  Geoffrey.  She 
did  not  count  any  more  with  this  twin  brother, 
who  had  been  her  other  self  all  her  life;  whom 
she  had  not  seen  for  long  dragging  weeks;  to 
whose  aid  she  had  flown  in  the  very  hour  in 
which  she  had  learned  that  he  was  alive.  She 
felt  very  lonely. 

Honest  turned  so  abruptly  that  he  sent  a  bag 
spinning  from  the  table.  For  the  second  time 
in  twenty-four  hours,  diamonds,  cut  and  uncut, 
lay  about  like  pebbles.  He  stared  at  Peggy  with 
a  kind  of  awe. 

"And  you  got  those  too?"  he  muttered.  He 
dropped  to  his  knees;  so  did  Peggy. 

"I  forgot  them,"  she  murmured  penitently. 
"They've  been  lying  on  the  table  since  I  came. 
But  who  thinks  of  diamonds  now?" 

"Tell  that  to  the  Brazilian!"  he  snorted, 
stretched  at  full  length  and  lighting  matches  un- 
der the  sofa.  His  voice  came  muffled.  "You 

[273] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

went  into  Belgium,"  he  continued,  "with  a  suit- 
case in  your  hand  and  a  small  hope  in  your  heart. 
You  have  come  out  with  more  loot  than  a  Ger-> 
man  could  snatch — a  bag  of  diamonds,  a  dog,' 
four  children,  a  Belgian  maidservant,  a  Belgian 
great  lady,  a  sweetheart  for  your  brother,  an 
American  citizen  dressed  as  a  German  lieuten- 
ant, a  Prussian  officer  who  will  be  interned  for  all 
the  war  because  he  tried  to  murder  a  girl — and 
an  airman,  an  American-French  airman;  a  won- 
der man!" 

He  stopped  as  he  made  a  last  intent  search 
of  a  dark  corner,  and  then  sat  up  and  looked  at 
Peggy. 

" Yvonne  told  you?"  he  asked.  "He  gave  them 
their  chance  by  heading  for  hell !  But  he  landed 
in  Holland.  A  real  man!" 

"She  told  me,"  Peggy  breathed  softly,  her 
eyes  shining.  "A  real  man!" 

They  finished  their  search,  both  creeping  on 
all-fours.  Their  heads  bumped  as  they  rose  to- 
gether. Peggy  laughed,  but  Honest's  melan- 
choly eyes  checked  her  moment's  mirth.  He 
picked  up  from  a  chair  the  once  sumptuous  fur 
coat  that  Roderick  Stoneman  had  stolen  from 
a  Belgian  chateau. 

"Yvonne  was  the  thin  lamb,"  he  said  grimly. 
[274] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"Her  fleece  was  gently  combed  in  the  wire  tun- 
nel and  she  swears  she  hasn't  a  scratch."  He 
spread  out  the  coat.  "Marie  Koort  was  the  fat 
ewe.  Look!  Bitten  all  over  by  a  mad  tiger. 
Looks  just  like  that,  doesn't  it?  But  it  saved 
Marie  Koort's  hide.  I'm  taking  it  to  the  owner. 
He's  a  refugee,  living  in  Scheveningen.  The 
Brazilian  is  there  too.  Shall  I  take  the  diamonds 
to  him?"  He  chuckled,  as  an  idea  came:  "The 
Belgian  is  hardly  likely  to  take  money  for  his 
ruined  coat,"  he  explained;  "but  if  he  does,  the 
Brazilian  shall  give  him  a  diamond.  Oh,  I'm  the 
clever  merchant!" 

But  Peggy  did  not  hear.  She  was  looking  at 
the  coat. 

"And  what  did  Mr.  Stoneman  wear?"  she 
asked. 

Honest  looked  at  her  just  as  he  had  when  he 
put  her  on  the  witness  stand  about  her  passport. 

"He's  cut  and  scratched  and  hacked,"  he  flung 
at  her;  "but  he's  bandaged  and  doctored.  Un- 
comfortable, of  course;  nothing  serious — and 
mighty  glad  of  the  chance.  Oh,  mighty  glad! 
He  knows  he  did  too  much.  He  knows  the  hue 
and  cry  that's  coming.  He's  the  hero,  all  right!" 

"Chance!    What  chance?" 

"The  stokehole."  Honest  eyed  her.  "Beats 
[275] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

a  Dutch  internment  camp  all  to  pieces!     He 
doesn't  kick.    He  doesn't  complain." 

"No.    He  must  not.    He  shall  not." 

"He  must  and  shall.  He's  in  a  sailors'  board- 
ing house  in  Rotterdam.  He's  dressed  in  greasy 
overalls  and  he  holds  a  fireman's  permit  to  ship. 
His  name  is  John  Bunn  and  he  was  born  in  Step- 
ney. He  will  get  a  berth  to-day,  I  hope,  and  sail 
for  New  York." 

"Cut,  scratched,  hacked?"  Peggy's  skin 
burned  as  she  repeated  the  words.  "And  in  the 
stokehole!  Oh- 

"What  should  he  do?"  Honest  asked  in  a  hard 
voice.  "He  thinks  of  his  job,  doesn't  he?  He 
wants  to  get  back  to  the  Front  as  soon  as  he  can, 
doesn't  he?"  He  thrust  out  his  jaw  and  half 
closed  his  eyes.  "He's  a  hero,  all  right!"  He 
forced  the  words  ungraciously. 

Peggy,  puzzled,  a  little  indignant,  hurt  that 
she  had  received  no  message  from  Roderick 
Stoneman,  and  anxious  about  him,  was  silent. 

"Oh,  you  don't  agree?"  this  strange  young 
man  said  truculently.  "He  is  a  knight  of  chiv- 
alry. He " 

Peggy  flushed  at  what  sounded  like  sarcasm. 

"Are  you  making  fun  of  him?"  she  demanded 
indignantly. 

[276] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"I  say,"  Honest  repeated,  "he  is  a  hero;  a 
knight." 

"Yes " 

"And  what  else — to  you?" 

She  was  so  startled  that  it  seemed  to  her  the 
man  thundered  these  words. 

"You  are  preposterous!"  she  flamed. 

"Never  mind  me."  His  mellow,  lovely  voice 
roughened.  "What  about  him?" 

"You  are  impertinent!"    She  drew  herself  up. 

"Yes,  yes ;  if  you  like.    But  what  is  he  to  you  ?" 

"Impertinence,"  Peggy  answered,  with  a 
stately  dignity,  "has  risen  to  insolence." 

"Bounder,  cad — anything  you  like.  Say 
American,  and  sum  it  all  up.  But  answer.  Re- 
member, I  saved  him  in  the  end." 

She  looked  cool  scorn;  but  she  obeyed. 

"Mr.  Stoneman  and  I,"  she  answered  slowly, 
choosing  her  words,  "were  flung  into  closest  in- 
timacy. His  behavior  was  perfect.  I  shall  al- 
ways be  grateful.  I  shall  always  be  his  friend 
— and  his  wife's." 

Honest's  eyes  were  lakes  of  white.  He  stared 
at  her. 

"His  wife's!"  he  repeated  hoarsely.  "Is  he 
married?"  An  immense  relief  rang  in  the  soft- 
ened notes  of  his  voice. 

[277] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"He  is  going  to  be.  He  and  I  have  talked 
much  of  his  very  charming  fiancee  in  California." 

Honest  frowned,  considered,  eyed  Peggy. 

"Suppose  he  wasn't  engaged?"  he  said,  with  a 
startling,  fierce  earnestness. 

Reticent,  self-controlled,  puzzled  Peggy  was 
beaten  for  a  sudden  brief  instant.  Her  lids 
dropped,  to  her  chagrin  and  wonder ;  then  flashed 
upward  to  disclose  defiant  eyes. 

"Don't  be  absurd,  Mr.  Honest,"  she  said,  with 
a  little  laugh.  "We  have  lots  of  things  to  ar- 
range." 

"You  love  him!"  Humbert  Honest  announced, 
with  conviction. 

She  darted  a  glance  so  angry  that  he  winced 
visibly.  He  changed  in  an  instant. 

"I  get  you,"  he  announced.  "The  seance  is 
over.  Your  pardon,  Miss  Travers.  You've  put 
me  in  the  brother  class  before  you  gave  yourself 
a  chance  to  grade  me  in  another.  All  right!  I 
stay  put.  I'm  Humbert  the  Hustler  now.  Get 
a  move  on.  Get  to  Rotterdam — quick!  You 
can't  have  your  passport  viseed  here.  Get  on 
board  the  boat  to-night.  Remember,  your  pass- 
port is  a  fraud.  Slip  away  before  they  get  too 
hot  on  the  trail.  I'm  off.  I've  my  job  too.  See 
you  on  the  boat  perhaps." 

[278] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

He  picked  up  the  diamonds  as  though  they 
were  peanuts  and  ran  out  of  the  room  without 
looking  at  her  again. 

Peggy  dropped  listlessly  into  a  chair;  and 
great  weariness  came  over  her  and  bewildered 
wonder  at  the  strange  ways  of  American  men. 
Mr.  Stoneman  was  cut  and  scratched,  and  very 
uncomfortable,  of  course;  but  if  he  could  shovel 
coal  in  the  fireroom  of  a  steamer  he  had  strength 
to  pencil  a  line.  He  had  not  even  sent  a  verbal 
message.  And  this  sentimental  comedian  with 
the  saucer  eyes,  this  Humbert  Honest,  had 
chosen  this  ridiculous  moment  to  let  his  absurd 
eyes  tell  her  that  he  thought  he  was  in  love  with 
her — that  is  what  it  all  meant,  of  course — and  to 
force  her  tired  eyelids  to  drop. 

She  had  dropped  them  as  the  easiest  way  of 
stopping  his  fantastic  advances;  she  told  herself 
that.  If  these  two  men,  to  one  of  whom  she  owed 
so  much,  and  the  other  of  whom  owed  her  so 
much,  could  only  have  been  Englishmen  of  the 
right  sort,  how  happy  she  should  be  now!  They 
had  spoiled  her  joy.  She  sprang  to  her  feet  and 
rushed  to  her  forgotten  family. 

The  crowded  day  ended  at  Flushing  with  a 
warm-cloaked  lot  of  obstreperous  children,  re- 
stored to  intense  vigor  by  an  immense  dinner. 

[279] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

They  had  the  hotel  entirely  to  themselves,  for 
Peggy  had  hired  an  automobile  and  preceded 
the  train.  Madame  Campion  and  Yvonne  were 
thus  saved  enthusiastic  greetings  from  children, 
which  might  have  drawn  undesirable  attention  to 
a  party  that  had  strong  reasons  for  unobtrusively 
slipping  away  from  Dutch  soil. 

Peggy  glanced  about  the  room  and  thought  of 
her  meal  there  only  a  short  week  before.  In  the 
few  intervening  days  she  had  lived  more  vividly, 
had  experienced  more  happenings,  than  in  all 
her  life  before.  She  knew  she  was  not  the  same 
Peggy,  and  she  thought  she  was  a  much  kinder 
and  gentler  and  humbler  Peggy;  but  the  one 
problem  still  remained  unsolved.  A  smile  flick- 
ered as  she  remembered  how  she  speculated  about 
the  way  to  know  whether  American  men  were 
the  right  sort.  Well,  meantime  she  had  pre- 
tended to  be  the  wife  of  one  and  had  had  sister- 
hood thrust  on  her  by  another;  and  she  knew 
less  about  them  than  ever. 

Ellen  Bates,  with  an  excited  little  dog  in  her 
arms,  gaily  thrust  aside  the  gangway  sentinel 
who  denied  premature  access  to  the  boat;  and 
the  children  were  soon  packed  in  their  stateroom, 
with  directions  to  undress.  Peggy,  alone  on 
[280] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

deck,  heard  fierce  squeals  and  shrieks  and  laugh- 
ter, and  ran  below.  She  found  a  petticoated, 
half -undressed  tribe  playing  a  game  in  the  cor- 
ridor with  life-preservers.  She  joined.  It  was 
a  great  game;  and  when  it  was  over  she  kissed 
and  tucked  the  children  in. 

Under  pretence  of  play  she  had  taught  them 
how  to  put  on  their  life-preservers.  God  grant 
that  there  be  no  need!  was  the  prayer  she 
breathed  over  each  one.  She  went  to  the  deck 
and  watched  the  passengers  as  they  came  in 
groups  along  the  dimly  lighted  gangway.  She 
saw  Humbert  Honest  arrive,  but  she  did  not 
move.  She  wanted  nobody  but  Geoffrey,  and 
she  was  awaiting  her  chance  for  a  long  talk  with 
him  in  some  shadowed  corner. 

Honest  wandered  forward  among  the  second- 
class  passengers  and  was  hailed  from  a  coil  of 
rope.  He  seated  himself  by  a  man  who  lay 
wrapped  in  an  old  coat  and  a  blanket.  "Fine, 
Stoneman!"  Honest  said.  "So  it  came  off  all 
right!  How  are  you  feeling?" 

"Until  I  got  your  note,  as  if  I  was  up  to  my 
neck  in  a  beehive.  But  escape  from  a  fireroom 
has  cured  me.  Thanks,  Honest !  You  work  mir- 
acles." 

"Easy  enough,"  Honest  answered.  "Twenty 
[281] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

guldens — no  more.  I  bought  a  fireman's  per- 
mit to  return  to  England  as  a  passenger,  and 
his  continuous  discharge  book.  Tiedermann?" 

"Got  a  berth  on  a  British  ship  and  is  off  for 
New  York,  Sunday." 

"Good!  I  made  the  Brazilian  happy.  Here." 
He  handed  over  a  small  parcel.  "I'll  tell  you 
what  that  is  in  a  minute.  I  saw  the  owner  of  the 
coat.  The  old  man  cried.  It  had  belonged  to  his 
son — killed;  he  was  glad  it  had  been  of  use  to 
an  American.  He  would  not  hear  of  payment. 
...  I  say,  Stoneman,  this  permit  of  yours  to 
travel  to  England  is  conditional." 

"Conditional?" 

"Yes.  You're  up  against  a  tough  proposition. 
It's  got  to  be  settled  right  now.  I've  seen  Miss 
Travers." 

"Yes?     You  gave  her  my  note?" 

"No.     Here  it  is." 

Stoneman's  head  rested  on  the  rope  and  his 
dirty  cap  covered  his  face.  He  flipped  the  cap 
aside,  moving  his  arm  stiffly,  and  wincing,  he 
stared  into  the  hardly  visible  face  of  his  com- 
panion. 

"I  didn't  know,"  the  latter  continued, 
"whether  it  said  the  right  thing.  It's  a  very  deli- 
cate matter,  Stoneman;  and  I'm  butting  in  be- 

[282] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

cause  I  am  an  American  and  so  are  you,  and 
because  we've  got  to  do  the  right  thing  by  Miss 
Travers." 

"Speak  freely." 

The  astonished  Stoneman  was  slightly  sarcas- 
tic. But  he  was  very  weary  and  he  owed  a  heavy 
debt  to  this  man;  so  the  sarcasm  was  slight. 

"I  intend  to,"  Honest  continued  firmly. 
"Miss  Travers  says  you  are  engaged  to  a  girl  in 
California." 

"She  had  it  on  my  authority,"  Stoneman  ad- 
mitted. 

"That  engagement,"  Honest  announced  in  low 
but  decisive  tones,  "must  be  broken,  old  man." 

The  silence  that  followed  was  marked  only  by 
the  sound  of  waves  washing  on  the  sandy  beach. 

Honest  smoked  so  fast  tnat  his  cigar  glowed 
like  a  planet.  He  gently  pressed  Stoneman  back 
as  the  latter  gave  signs  of  rising  to  a  sitting  pos- 
ture. 

"You're  bound  to  do  it,  Stoneman,"  he  urged,, 
with  melancholy  earnestness.  "It  may  be  hard 
for  the  girl;  it  may  be  hard  for  you;  but  Miss 
Travers  has  the  first  claim." 

Convulsive  undulations  of  the  blanket  fol- 
lowed. Honest  thought  a  worn  and  weakened 

[283] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

man  was  shaking  in  grief ;  but  his  affronted  ears 
caught  laughter. 

"It's  no  joke,"  he  commented  bitterly.  "I 
wish  it  was." 

"Miss  Travers,"  Stoneman  said,  "is  not  wor- 
ried in  the  least  because  war  and  her  courage  put 
her  and  me  on  the  same  passport  with  the  same 
name.  She  is  not  compromised." 

"And  that's  true  too,"  Honest  agreed;  "but 
that's  not  the  point.  If  she  wants  you,  hasn't 
she  earned  you?" 

"Wants  me?"  the  staggered  Stoneman  re- 
peated. "Does  she  want  me?" 

"She  does,"  Honest  said  sadly.  "I  don't  know 
why;  but  she  does.  She  almost  said  it  in  words. 
You're  the  lucky  man,  Stoneman." 

"And  how,"  asked  the  dazed  listener,  "did  you 
come  to  talk  about  me?" 

"These  are  unusual  times,  Stoneman,"  was  the 
grave  answer.  "This  had  to  be  settled.  She  had 
been  doing  great  stunts  with  you  and  for  you. 
I  went  to  her.  I  asked  her  straight  out.  Her 
lips  didn't  answer.  How  could  they?  You  were 
engaged.  But  her  eyes  and  her  cheeks  did.  That 
settled  it!  No  New  York  for  you.  I  hustled 
and  got  you  aboard  here.  It's  up  to  you,  Stone- 
man. You've  got  to  cable  to  California  and  cut 

[284] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

that  out;  and  you've  got  to  propose  to  Miss 
Travers  with  such  pep  and  ginger  that  she  will 
believe  you  and  accept  you." 

"And  if  I  refuse?"  Stoneman  demanded,  semi- 
delirious  with  happiness. 

"As  an  American  gentleman  you  cannot." 

"The  girl  in  California?"  Stoneman  expostu- 
lated, dizzy  with  suppressed  laughter. 

"There  is  only  one  girl  in  the  world." 

"If  I  refuse?"  Stoneman  persisted. 

"You  shall  never  land  in  England.  I'll  ex- 
pose your  false  name  and  your  bought  permit. 
You'll  be  taken  back  to  internment." 

"But,  Honest,  I  am  a  combatant;  and  you  are 
pro-Ally." 

"I  am  pro-Peggy  in  this;  nothing  else.  She 
wants  you.  She  must  have  you." 

"Oh,  very  well!"  Stoneman  cried.  "I  agree. 
I  agree  to  everything." 

"Thanks,  old  man!"  was  the  mournful  answer. 
"And  you'll  make  her  happy?"  Honest's  voice 
was  trembling. 

"I'll  do  my  best." 

Chat  little  parcel,"  he  said,  "is  a  diamond.  I 
accepted  one  in  your  name  from  a  wildly  happy 
Brazilian.  It  is  for  an  engagement  ring." 

[285] 


THE  WHITE  HOUSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

"Thank  you,  Honest.  When  will  she  be  com- 
ing over?" 

"She  is  on  board.  You  will  hide  from  her,  of 
course." 

"Oh,  of  course!" 

"Make  her  happy,  Stoneman." 

Honest  turned  and  walked,  with  bowed  head, 
along  the  dark  deck.  His  great  renunciation 
was  achieved.  His  heart  was  heavy.  He  was 
tired  out.  He  tumbled  into  his  stateroom  and 
his  bed. 

Roderick  Stoneman  lay,  with  closed  eyes; 
chuckling  sometimes  at  Honest's  ludicrous  mis- 
taken intervention  in  his  affairs ;  serious  at  mo- 
ments in  high  respect  for  Honest's  manly  and 
unselfish  course;  more  serious  at  others  when  he 
pictured  Honest's  conversation  with  astonished 
and,  no  doubt,  indignant  Peggy;  most  serious 
when  he  thought  of  Honest's  blunt  and  convinced 
report  of  the  state  of  Peggy's  heart.  He  was 
just  a  trifle  light-headed;  his  pulse  was  feverishly 
quick,  and  his  throbbing  brain  ultimately 
throbbed  to  a  ridiculous  recurrent  refrain,  which 
sometimes  he  sang  softly: 

"And  this  is  the  thing  I  would  explain: 
There's  no  such  girl  as  Millicent  Jane!' 
[286] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

Ellen  Bates,  too  excited  for  sleep,  had  dressed 
and  was  sneaking,  in  delicious  happiness,  about 
places  in  which  there  was  no  danger  of  running 
against  Mrs.  Fargo.  She  caught  these  words,  re- 
treated from  this  unknown  songster,  and  went  aft 
repeating  the  tuneful  pleasing  lilt. 

In  a  dark  corner  of  the  deck  above,  Peggy  had 
just  nestled  close  to  a  liveried  footman. 

"I'm  a  beast!"  Geoffrey  said.  "I  never  said 
how-do  this  morning;  never  kissed  you." 

But  Peggy  jumped  up.  She  leaned  over  and 
peered  down.  She  could  not  see  the  singer;  but 
the  words  came  again — clear,  distinct. 

"It's  tit  for  tat,  Geoff!"  she  exclaimed.  "You 
forgot  me  for  a  girl.  Well,  there's  a  man  on 
board " 

He  laughed. 

"I'm  hunting  Yvonne!"  he  called  after  her. 

She  hurried  below.  A  startled,  mysterious  fig- 
ure fled  from  before  her  and  disappeared.  She 
wandered  about,  peering.  There  might  be  such 
a  vaudeville  song,  of  course;  but  the  coincidence 
was  most  improbable.  It  must  be  a  message  and 
a  summons ;  for,  of  course,  the  disguised  fugitive 
could  not  come  to  her.  And  what  was  the  mes- 
sage ?  It  told  more  than  of  his  presence  on  board. 
Peggy's  heart  beat  faster  to  the  rhythm  of  the 

[287] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AXD  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

jingle  as  she  wandered;  and  at  last  she  came  to 
the  lonely  bow. 

She  stood  and  looked  out  over  the  dark  water 
and  at  the  frowning  blackness  of  the  outlined 
Dutch  war  vessels  anchored  near.  She  recalled 
what  Stoneman  had  said  of  Millie  and  of  Jennie. 
She  wondered  now  why  she  had  believed  for  an 
instant  in  this  double-named  Wonder  of  the 
West,  with  her  looped  lasso.  She  smiled  as  she 
recalled  this  burlesque  description.  Where  was 
he? 

She  was  suddenly  shot  through  with  hot  in- 
dignation. Humbert  Honest,  first,  pressing  his 
clumsy  hand  on  her  heart  and  spying  into  her 
soul  with  his  effeminate  eyes;  and  now  this  fan- 
tastic message,  wounding  to  all  dignity!  These 
incredible,  impossible  American  men,  with  their 

crude  methods  and  manners Oh,  yes ;  decent 

at  heart — they  meant  well ;  but  fancy  an  English 
huckster  of  motor  cars  daring  to  speak  to  her  as 
this  man  Honest  had  spoken !  Fancy  an  English 
flight  commander  descending  to  the  vulgarity  of 
a  music-hall  jingle  message! 

Peggy  could  not  fancy  such  enormities.  In- 
dignation grew.  She  was  astonished  that  she  had 
meekly  flown  to  this  summons.  She  compared 
herself  with  a  servant  girl  who  runs  to  the  cor- 

[288] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

ner  at  the  butcher  boy's  whistle.  She  had  run, 
eagerly,  gladly,  without  hesitation,  a  smile  on 
her  lips,  her  heart  beating  quickly.  Why? 
What  difference  to  her  whether  there  was  a  Millie 
or  a  Jennie,  or  any  other  girl? 

She  listened,  her  head  a  little  on  one  side,  her 
mind  intently  concentrated.  It  came  again — that 
faint  sinister  sound  which  had  come  as  she  stood 
on  the  high  balcony  at  Brussels.  The  booming 
of  this  far-distant  gun  did  more  than  recall  her 
to  a  world  of  war.  It  struck  at  her  with  a  per- 
sonal menace.  Geoffrey  was  free  now  and  would 
soon  be  well;  and  he  must  go.  And  Roderick 
Stoneman—  -  She  turned,  fleeing  from  her  own 
thought — and  saw  the  outline  of  a  sleeping  fig- 
ure. 

She  lifted  the  greasy  cap.  She  could  make 
out  a  smudged,  unshaven  face,  unrecognizable  in 
the  darkness.  She  lighted  a  match  from  her 
handbag.  She  uttered  a  little  crooning  cry  as 
she  saw  deep  scratches  and  lines  of  fatigue  cut 
deeper  still. 

She  sat  down  on  the  coil  of  rope  and  gently 
clasped  her  hands  beneath  his  head.  She  lifted 
the  head  and  slid  herself  beneath  it.  She  twined 
and  twisted  until  it  lay  in  her  lap  against  the  soft 
fur  of  her  coat.  She  heard  a  deep  sigh  of  peace 

[289] 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  AND  THE  RED-HAIRED  GIRL 

as  it  nestled  close.  She  pulled  the  blanket  up  and 
sheltered  her  arms  about  him,  and  smoothed  his 
hot  forehead  with  her  cool  palm. 

A  Dutch  sailor  came  once  and  flashed  a  lan- 
tern; but  Peggy  gestured  him  away.  The  cold 
clutched  her  as  with  a  palpable  hand;  but  she 
would  not  even  shiver,  lest  she  disturb  the  sleeper. 

Six  bells  struck  close  by,  were  repeated  else- 
where, and  sounded  from  dark  hulls  looming 
near.  Stoneman  sat  up.  Her  arms  clasped  him 
and  pressed  him  back. 

"Peggy!"  he  whispered. 

"Yes." 

"I  love  you!" 

"Yes;  I  know.  I  am  happy.  Go  to  sleep." 
She  pressed  a  hand  over  his  lips. 

The  great  gun  sounded  its  recurrent  sombre 
menace. 

She  held  him  close  to  her  breast.  She  was  uni- 
versal womanhood,  sheltering,  loving,  mothering 
the  fighting  man  between  battles. 


[290] 


UCSPUTH 


ftelBooft.  Store 
C&nTfte  Square 

GflLION.       OHIO 


